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MORE 
MODERN MONOLOGUES 



MORE MODERN 
MONOLOGUES 



BY 

MARJORIE BENTON COOKE 



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CHICAGO 
THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY 



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[LIBRARY of CONSRESS] 
Two Copies K«se!*eG 

DEC 26 »907 

Copynznt tntry 
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'copy /b. 



Copyright 1907, by 
MARJORIE BENTON COOKE 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



At the Matinee 9 

All in the Point of View . . 21 

A Real Lady 27 

By Faith Alone .... 33 

Sweet Kitty and the Little Blind 

God 37 

A Pleasant Half Hour on the 

Beach 43 

How Gentlemen are Made . -53 

Homesick 59 

An Hour with a Modern Martyr . 69 

When Men Propose . . . 75 

Nicoletta 83 

A Christian Soldier ... 89 

In the Wings 95 



CONTENTS 

At the Fresh Air Camp . . 105 

The Charity Fair . . . .109 

Aunt Jane 117 

The Shampoo Woman . . 127 

Heroines 131 



AT THE MATINEE 

Characters : 

Lenore Lawton, a typical Matinee girl. 
Bessie Gray, her chum. 

Scene — The Grand Theatre, during a 
Matinee. 

Lenore Lawton Speaks. 

[She enters with the popular 
society girl swing, looking 
haughtily about her, till she dis- 
covers her friend.] 
Oh, hello ! There you are, Bess. Yes, 
I know I'm late, but I could not help it. 
Isn't it the limit? I've gone and missed 
the whole first act. 

[She croivds by the whole row of 
people to get to her seat, step- 
ping on an umbrella as she 
pushes by.] 

Did I break it! That's too bad, but 
vou reallv ousrht not to have had it right 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

out there, where I couldn't help step- 
ping on it. 

[Laughs to her friend as she sits 
down.'] 

I broke that good and proper ! Serves 
her right for having it stuck out there. 
. . . My dear, I had the most awful 
time getting here. My little brother fell 
down stairs this morning and nearly 
broke his neck. Of course, he'd go and 
do it on Saturday morning, the most 
inconvenient time for me. "When I heard 
him yell, I said to myself — "You won't 
get to go to the Matinee!" But the 
doctor came round and fixed him up, so 
I came along. Yes, he was pretty badly 
hurt — he broke his leg and cut his head. 
Oh, mamma was with him ! Mamma had 
to read a paper this afternoon before 
the Women's Club, and she was all 
broken up over missing it, but of course, 
he's her child, so she just had to stay 
with him. She wanted me to go and 
read her paper before the Club, but I 
told her I had tickets for the matinee 
and I wasn't going to do it, so I just 
came along. 

[She looks about the audience.] 
Oh, there's Fanny Wright. No, the 
row in front of us, on the aisle. The 
one with the light hair — touches it up, 

10 



AT THE MATINEE 

you know. Have you heard the latest 
about her! Well, she's landed that fat 
little Jew she 's been dangling so long. 

[Glances in Miss Wright's direc- 
tion and encounters a blazing 
stare. She laughs.] 
Gee — did you see that look ? She must 
have heard me! Well, I don't care if 
she did — it's the truth, and the sooner 
she hears it the better. Here, Boy, I 
want some water. 

[She leans across the intervening 
people to get a glass of ivater.] 
Want a drink, Bess? Don't you? I 
never was so thirsty in my life. I just 
tore for the train, and then I missed it. 
[Leans over again and returns 
the glass.] 
Oh, Boy — send me the candy boy, will 
you! [Looks around again.] 

I don't think much of these seats, do 
you! I like to be right up in front 
when I see Mr. Hackett. How is he! 
Is he just as darling as ever! I just 
adore him. He's got the cutest profile, 
and he always stands sideways so you 
can see it. Isn't it cunning of him? I 
think he's too su-weet! Goodness, there 
goes the curtain and I haven't even be- 
gun to get my hat off. It's so hard to 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

get your hat off, we wear such silly 
hats. 

[Turns indignantly upon tvoman 
behind her.] 

I am trying to get it off, Madame, if 
you'll just wait a moment. 

[Makes ineffectual efforts to lo- 
cate hat inns.] 

Goodness, I must have a dozen pins in. 

[Turns again to tvoman behind 
her.] 

Well, will you wait a minute? Isn't 
that a horrid woman? You'd think she'd 
bought the whole lower floor! Can you 
And the last one, Bess? 

[She leans toward her compan- 
ion, who takes out the last hat 
pin. Lenore then begins to comb 
her hair with her back and side 
combs, holding her arms so no 
one behind her can see a thing.] 

Isn't it the limit, the way they make 
you take off your hat, and then don't 
give you a thing to look at yourself in! 
You never know how your hair looks. 
Is mine all right? 

[Gathers up hat and several pins 
and pins her hat to back of seat 
in front of her. Starts back 
ivith a scream.] 

12 



AT THE MATINEE 

Good gracious — what's the matter 
with you? I'm pinning my hat to your 
back bone? [Aggrieved tone.] Well, I 
didn't know your back bone was so near ! 
[To Bess.] 
Fussy, isn't he? Oh, bother, here's 
the boy with the candy. 

[Leans over intervening people 
again to talk to candy hoy, in 
stage -whisper.] 
How much is chocolate candy a 
pound? How much? Forty cents? 
Why, when did it go up? I've paid 
thirty-five cents here, I know. Forty 
cents ? Well, how much is half a pound? 
Twenty-five cents? I'll have half a 
pound, then. Can you change five dol- 
lars? You can't? Why don't you boys 
carry change ? You get that changed at 
the box office and bring it right back, 
please. 

[Exchanges bill for candy, giving 

the woman next her a scornful 

glance as she does so.] 

Most disagreeable woman next to me 

— she kept saying "Sh!" all the time. 

Women are so horrid, aren't they? 

[Offers Bess the box.] 
Have some candy. Don't want it? On 
a diet — you? For goodness sake, why 

13 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

didn't you say so? I never would have 
bought it if I had known that — I don't 
care anything about it. 

[Begins to eat noisily and rap- 
idly.'] 
Say, Bess, what's the plot! Is there 
any? Did I miss anything in the first 
act? Hackett is a prince — uh-huh — in 
love with a princess? — I see, the adven- 
turess is trying to ruin him — Hackett. 
And who's in love with the adventuress? 
Oh, the villain. French villain ? Goody ! 
— I do love a French villain ! 

[Turns to woman next her tvith 
haughty stare.] 
I paid just as much for my seat as you 
paid for yours, and I have just as much 
right to talk as you have to be quiet. 

[Looks at stage for a minute, 
dodging some barrier.] 
I can't see a thing — this woman in 
front of me has got her hair done so 
high. I can't see a thing. 

[In reply to ivoman in front.] 

Oh, you needn't bother, thank you. 
[Chuckles to Bess.] 

Did you hear that? No — she said 
she'd take her hair down, if I'd just be 
quiet. 

[Turns, as if interrupted by can- 
dy boy.] 

14 



AT THE MATINEE 

What! Oh, my change. Give it to 
nie. [Puts it away without counting it.] 
Say, Bess, I don't understand about 
this. What are all those men standing 
around the stage for? Put there by the 
adventuress, to kill Hackett! A con- 
spiracy? Mercy — 

[Slides breathless to edge of 
chair.] 
He don't know they're there, does he! 
I hope he don't come. Gee — there he is ! 
[Puts up opera glass.] 
[Breathlessly.] What's he going to 
do? He don't see them yet? Oh, mercy 
— he's going to fight them. 

[She follows the fight from side 
to side of the stage with her 
opera glass, counting the dead.] 
One — look out — two — 0, do be careful 
—behind you!— [Sigh] three— four — 
that was an easy one — five — ouch ! Six — 
[Puts doivn glass and turns beam- 
ing face on Bess.] 
He's killed them all— isn't that splen- 
did! . . . Oh, but Bess, he's wounded. 
Yes, he is— don't you see that blood on 
his head! The poor dear. . . . Look, 
he's falling down — he says he thinks 
he's done for. 

[She begins to snuffle gently, wip- 
ing her tears.] 
Did you hear him?— he wants to say 

15 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

good-bye to his mother. How su-weet! 
Where is that old Princess? She'd bet- 
ter be getting here, if she wants to see 
him again. [Sobs audibly.] 

No, of course he isn't going to die — 
he can't — it's only the end of the second 
act! Oh, there she comes — horrid thing! 
I think she's ugly, don't you? And I 
wish you'd look how her clothes hang! 
[Puts up her glass again.] 
I should hope she did love him — the 
dear thing! [Sigh.] Isn't that too su- 
weet? 

[She follows the descending cur- 
tain with her glass and begins 
to applaud.] 
Clap hard and get him out again — 
isn't he grand? There he is — oh, just 
look how he's panting. He always pants 
like that — he acts so hard. 

[Applauds again till curtain de- 
scends.] 
Wasn't it grand? I think he's the 
grandest actor on the stage! It's a grand 
play too. Of course it was wonderful, 
his killing all those men, but did you 
see him do the "Three Musketeers"? 
Well, it was the grandest thing — he 
killed seven men at once. Part of the 
time he was killing two at a time. 

[Bloius her nose and wipes her 
eyes.] 

16 



AT THE MATINEE 

I think he's awfully pathetic, don't 
you? I always cry my eyes out. That's 
the trouble with me, I'm so soft hearted. 
I always bring a lot of handkerchiefs, 
for I know I'll need them. 

[Begins to look for handkerchiefs 

— tries her sleeves, her blouse, 

and finally her hand bag.] 

Where do you suppose I put those 

things — they aren't in my bag? Do you 

suppose I put them in my change pock- 

etbook? 

[Opens her pocketbook and in- 
spects it. Indignation dawns on 
her face.] 
Say, do you know I believe that candy 
boy short-changed me ! 

[Dumps her money into her lap.] 
Yes, sir — he only gave me four fifty 
instead of four seventy-five. I'm just 
going to call the usher and complain ! 

[Turns and beckons the usher.] 

Usher, that candy boy short-changed 
me. He only gave me four fifty instead 
of four seventy-five. Yes, of course, I 've 
counted my change. You call the boy, 
please. [The candy boy is summoned.] 

Boy — you gave me the wrong change. 
It's a quarter short. No, you did not — 
I guess I know what I've got — 

[To ivoman next her.] 
17 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Madame, I have counted it twice. 
What quarter? Under the candy box! 

[Picks up box and extracts quar- 
ter, which she holds up with ex- 
pression of mild surprise.'] 

Never mind, Boy. [To Bess.] It' would 
have been just like him to have short- 
changed me — they do it all the time. 

[She eats candy and gazes about 
superciliously.] 

See anybody you know? Common 
looking crowd, isn't it! 

[Turns to woman next her.] 

What! Well, I wish you would stop 
talking to me — I don't know you, and I 
don't want to talk to you. Well, you try 
it once, just call the usher and see what 
happens. You're an awfully disagree- 
able woman — you make everybody 
around you uncomfortable. 

[Indignantly to Bess.] 

This old woman is the limit. She says 
she '11 call an usher and have me put out 
if I don't stop talking during the next 
act. [To some one in front of her.] 

What! If she don't, you will. . . . 
[To Bess.] Did you ever hear such a 
brass bound nerve? That's what we get 
for sitting back here with the rabble. 

18 



AT THE MATINEE 

Say, I know the head usher — he '11 change 
our seats for us. Come on. It serves 
us right for sitting back here with the 
hoipoloi ! 

[Gathers her hat and candy, and 
crowds by her long suffering 
neighbors.'] 



19 



ALL IN THE POINT OF VIEW 

News Item — "An automobile, going at 
a high rate of speed, collided tvith 
an electric car on the comer of 
Twelfth and G streets this morn- 
ing. No one teas hurt." 

Characters : 

Billy Sanders, a reporter on tlie "Daily 
Spread Eagle." 

Sam Johnson (colored), street cleaner. 

Officer Patrick Flinn, of the ' ' f oorce. ' ? 

Yon Yonson, driver of a sprinkling cart. 

Sam Johnson Speaks. 

Yes, sail, Boss, I seen de whole cata- 
lastrophe wid ma' own eyes. Well, sah, 
I wuz a-sweepin' np to'ds de co'nah, 
keepm' moughty close to de curb — dat's 
whah yo ? can always fin' me, close np to 
de curb. [Excitedly.'] 

If de pedelestrians am' got no show 
fo' dey lives wid dese heah automobil- 
ists, what chance do yo' reckon a com- 
mon street sweepah's got! If yo ? keep 

21 



21 ORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

on a stickin ' to de curb de Inspector mos ' 
kill you', an' if yo' go out in de street de 
automobile man plumb kill yo', an' yo' 
got to lose yo' job or yo' life! 

Yes, sab, Boss, I'se a gettin' to dat. 
I was a sweepin' when I see dis yere au- 
tomobile come tearin' along — 

[Scratches his head thoughtfully.] 

I dunno fo' sho', Boss, but I reckon 
'twuz a-goin' 'bout eighty miles a hour. 
Des' as she turned de co'nah I heerd de 
car bell jangiin' an' I smelt trouble, so 
I rushed up dere des' at de moment ob 
de concurrence. It wuz a head on col- 
lision an' de immortality wuz awful! 
[Shakes his head and groans.] 

I went right out dah, Boss, an' de daid 
an' dyin' wuz a lyin' dere by de dozens, 
men, wimmen, an' chilluns. Mos' ev'body 
wuz daid! I went right off to fin' a po- 
liceman, but while I wuz gone some- 
buddy turned in de alarm, an ' de pay trol 
wagon come along, an' I, an' de res' ob 
cle livin',put de daid an 'dyin 'in de wag- 
on an' sent 'em to de horspital. I dunno 
how many dey wuz fo' sho', but dej wuz 
a pow'fui lot! 

[Looks at some man who has ap- 
proached, shakes his head and 
adds confidentially .] 

'Sense me, Boss, but I think dat hook- 
nose man over dah is a Inspector. Yo' 



1 ALL IN THE POINT OF VIEW 

neber can tell, dey's liable fo' to spring 
clese yere plain clo's men on yo' any 
time. [Goes off muttering to himself.] 

Officer Flinn Speaks. 

Good marning, Sor. Yiss, Sor, I was 
on the spliot at the very toime, Sor. 
Well, Sor, I was sthandin' on the earner, 
passin' the toime av' day wid Flannigan, 
on the nixt beat, whin I saw this otty- 
mobile come along, a-spheedin'. I stips 
ont to arrist the droiver, whin I hears 
the car approachin' an' sez I to Flanni- 
gan T-r-o-n-b-l-e — spells trouble! "Well, 
Sor, the ottymobile was goin' 'bout wan 
hundred moiles an hour, an' 'twas by me 
loike thot! 

[He shoivs the speed by a ges- 
ture.'] 

An' thin she goes into the sthreet car. 
'Twas the mos' remarkable thing I 
iver see in me loife! The ottymobile 
wint into the grip car head on, an' cut 
the car in two, sthraight clown the mid- 
dle, loike a big knife, an' laid the two 
par-rts on the ground, as slick as ye 
plaze. [Here he explains with gestures.] 

The gripman? No, Sor, he wasn't 
scratched. He stipped to the roight av' 
the cut, an' it niver touched 'im. No, 
Sor, the ottymobilist, he sat at the wheel, 

23 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

a-guidin' her stiddy, an' sez he, "Ixeuse 
me!" to the gripnian as he passed 'mi! 
No, Sor, no wan wnz hurted — the pas- 
sengers had a shakin' oop, but no dam- 
age done. Sure, I run 'em both in — the 
ottymobilkt an' the gripnian, fer 
spheedin'. 

A naygur told ye thot? [Laughs.] 
Well, ye niver can trust these sthreet 
cleaners, they're a durty, lyin' lot av' 
gazabos. Good marnin' to ye, Sor! 
[Departs swinging his club.] 

Yon Yonson Speaks. 

Whoa! Huh? No-o, hay don' see no 
acc'dnt. Oh, de greepcar und de auto'- 
m'bile? Yaas, hay see heem. Veil, hay 
go on de vater vagon. No — de sprinkle 
cart — 

[Explains "sprinkle" with rapid 

gesture, suggesting spraying 

ivater.] 

Sprinkle — 'Sprinkle — can't you spik 

Ing'lish — sprinkle cart! Yaas, und hay 

vas sprinkling ven de auto 'm 'bile mon, 

hay see heem auto 'm 'bilin ', und hay see 

de greepmon greepin', und purt' soon 

hay go boomp-boomp. 

[He indicates the collision with 
his hands.] 
Auto 'm'lbile mon, hay go oop in de air 

24 



ALL IN THE POINT OF VIEW 

und coom down boomp — und greep mon, 
hay go oop in de air und coom down 
boomp ! Auto 'm'bile mon ? No, bay don' 
hurt heem,hay yust go on auto'm'bilin'. 
. . . Yaas. Greepmon? No, hay don ' 
hurt heem. Yen hay coom down boomp 
— a horse hay step on heem, but hay don ' 
hurt heem, yust keel heem. De pass — 
pass — vat is dat vord? Oh, de peoples? 
No, dey youst boomp heem, not hurt 
heem. Did hay go to help de greepmon? 

[Looks at reporter in astonish- 
ment.] 
No, hay don' help heem, hay vas 
sprinklm*. Git app! 

[He shakes his reins and drives 
of.] 



25 



A REAL LADY 

Characters : 

Mrs. Hoggenheimer. 

Other Women Passengers. 

Scene — A Pullman car dressing room. 

Mrs. Hoggenheimer Speaks. 

[Mrs. Hoggenheimer, bag in 

hand, enters the dressing room, 

locks the door, and gives deep 

sigh of relief.] 

Well, I beat 'em in after all, even if 

I did have to stay awake half the night 

to do it. It's a wonder to me the way 

decent looking women act in a Pullman 

toilet room, so ill-natured and selfish. 

. . . I just made up my mind last 

night that I'd get in here first. 

[Yawns and looks at watch.] 
It's an hour and a half, by my watch, 
until we get into Oscaloosa, but I like 
to be ready in plenty of time. 

[Opens her hag and spreads out 
her toilet things.] 
I heard of a woman once who had to 
get right off the train in her kimona, be- 

27 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

cause the porter forgot to call her in 
time to dress. 

[Begins to ivasli her face. Lifts 

her head and listens.] 

There they come, I knew how it would 

be. [Speaks to some one outside.] 

You can't come in. I'll be out in a 

minute. I can't help it, I got in here 

first. Your child is sick? [Sharply.] 

In a minute. 

[Wipes her face, muttering to 
herself.] 
Why do women insist on travelling 
with children? 

[Unlocks door and opens it un- 
graciously.] 
I got in here first, and I have a per- 
fect right to lock the door. I don 't want 
people running in here while I'm all un- 
dressed. What do you travel with a 
baby for? Can't leave him? Well, I 
must say I think there ought to be a law 
against children under ten on Pullman 
trains. Somebody's child kept me awake 
all night. [She begins to do her hair.] 
Mercy, what ails the child? There is 
certainly nothing the matter with his 
lungs! I never heard such a yell. I 
never allowed my children to cry and 
annoy people. 

[She turns as if at a knock. Whis- 
pers to other woman.] 

28 



A REAL LADY 

Don't open the door. 

[Speaks to some one outside.] 
You can't come in, the room is full. 
We'll be out in a minute, but we've got 
a sick baby in here. I can't help it if 
you do get off in twenty minutes, we 
got in first. [Annoyed tone.] 

Can't you stop him? Here — baby — 
look, look — see the pretty watch. 

[Gives her watch to the howling 
child. To mother.] 
No, don't you let her in. "Why didn't 
she get up, like we did? 

[Speaks to outsider again.] 
You will have to wait, I tell you. Your 
little boy can't come in — there's a baby 
in here now, having a fit. 

[To mother of baby — soothingly.] 
I just said that to keep her out. 

[Attack on the door is renewed, so 
she throws it open.] 
For goodness sake, come in, and be 
quiet! No, I don't think I own the toi- 
let room, but I got up in time to get in 
here, without annoying everybody else. 
[Sharply.] Get out of that bag, little 
boy. 

[Baby drops watch and breaks it. 
Mrs. H. stoops to pick it up in 
great concern.] 

29 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Oh! Look at that! Well, it's good- 
bye watch. [Listens for the tick.] 
I do think you might have kept your 
hand on it, when I only gave it to your 
child to keep him from shrieking. 

[Turns and put on her collar.] 
Put that down, little boy, that's mine. 
That's my brush, Madam. Well, it 
doesn't belong in here. 

[Grabs brush, ivashes and rubs it. 
Turns her head, at sound of an- 
other knock.] 
Another woman — don't let her in — 
it's crowded to suffocation in here now. 
[Door is opened and another wo- 
man enters, greeted with freez- 
ing glance from Mrs. H.] 
I don't know how women can act the 
way they do — pushing in and demand- 
ing their rights, and being so selfish. It's 
awful! It's a queer thing that people 
who travel never have any manners — 
they're always so pushing and vulgar. I 
can't bear to travel just on that account. 
And when you try to show people how 
to act they — 

[Looks about triumphantly.] 
Gone, every one of them. I thought 
that would do it. 

[Locks the door and proceeds 
with toilet leisurely.] 

30 



A REAL LADY 

Now I can get my things on in peace. 
Wonder what place this is, we seem to 
be stopping here a long time. 

[She glances out of window, then 
packs her bag.] 

Who is it? That yon, Porter? Tow- 
els? All right. [She opens the door.] 

I'll take them, Porter. What place is 
that we jnst pulled out of, Porter? . . . 
Oscaloosa! [Tableau.] 



31 



BY FAITH ALONE 

Characters : 

Mrs. Frederick Belmont-Towers. 

Helen, her friend. 

Scene — Mrs. Belmont-Towers' Bedroom 

Mrs. Belmont-Towers Speaks. 

Is that you, Helen? Come in. You 
must excuse me for seeing you up here, 
but this is my day for treatment and I 
don't get up till afternoon. Oh, didn't 
you know? I'm taking a course with 
Omarkanandi, this famous Hindoo 
priest. You haven't heard of him? Oh, 
my dear, he is too wonderful. You know 
what an invalid I've been for years? 
I've had no sympathy in my suffering — 
Fred thinks it's all nonsense, says I'm a 
hypochondriac, and all that, but Omark- 
anandi says my condition has been sim- 
ply pitiful! He's so sympathetic, Helen. 
He wears a long red robe, and a turban 
and the queerest rings, and his eyes are 
the most soulful things. Well, it's hard 
to tell you just what he does do. He 

33 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

sits beside rne, and holds my hands and 
looks into my eyes and talks to me, in 
his soft Oriental voice. He says he is 
the medium of infinite strength and pow- 
er, and that he transmits it to me. 

Well, he thinks in time that I can draw 
on this power myself, without him. He 
says that I'm so highly strung that the 
winds of evil play on me. He says my 
chronic indigestion is simply a wind of 
evil, and that I must harden myself 
against it. I told him I didn't care so 
much about the indigestion itself, but 
it was ruining my complexion. He said 
when I got myself into harmony with the 
Infinite my skin would be like a rose 
leaf — so you can see for yourself the 
thing is worth while. 

Oh, no, it isn't Mind Cure or Chris- 
tian Science or any of those intangible 
things, this is really practical. 

And I find that my power over others 
is growing, just as he said it would. The 
other night, Fred came home just worn 
out, and I determined to try the cure on 
him, so I made him lie down, and I held 
his hand, and looked at him, and talked 
very softly, and it was no time at all, 
Helen, until he was sleeping like a child. 

You see, what I like about this system 
is, that it is so practical. I told Omar- 
kanandi how I was worrying about my 



BY FAITH ALONE 

Bridge debts, and that I couldn't tell 
Fred about it, and lie put himself "in 
harmony" and worked out the most 
wonderful scheme. He told me to get 
up a sort of Trust, and make up a pool, 
every woman in the club putting in five 
hundred dollars. Then as long as we 
won, we should each put ten per cent, of 
our winnings back into the pool, and if 
we lost, the pool would stand for it, up 
to a certain limit. I was Treasurer and 
I made Omarkanandi take five hundred 
for thinking up the scheme. He didn't 
want to at all, but he did finally to help 
"his cause." 

Well, it worked splendidly for about 
a week, and then it ended in the aw- 
fullest row. The women accused each 
other of not paying their ten per cent., 
and of overdrawing on the pool, and 
every woman demanded her money 
back, and we just couldn't get it 
straightened out. I'm out, Heaven only 
knows how much! 

Some of the men heard about it, and 
you ought to have seen Fred lecture me. 
I repeated a lot of things to him that he 
had said himself onthebenefit of Trusts, 
but he said that it was all rot. I told 
him I thought so when he first said it, 
but I was so used to taking his word as 
law, that I went right ahead. I'd never 

35 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

dare tell him how much I'm out — I just 
said, ' * We '11 call it legitimate speculation 
and charge it up to profit and loss," 
which is his favorite excuse when he's 
on the wrong side of the market. 

Mercy, no, I didn't tell him Omarkan- 
andi had anything to do with it. He 
says he 's a fraud and all sorts of things. 
Omar says Fred is not attuned to the 
higher chords of ethereality, so he lives 
in error and darkness. . . . Helen, 
you ought to have him come see you; 
he'd do wonders for you. Only five 
hundred for the course, and it's nothing 
when you think what he does for you. 

[Listens to Helen's sarcasms in 
surprise.] 

Why, Helen! I'm afraid you're like 
Fred, too worldly and suspicious to 
grasp these truths. As Omarkanandi 
says, you must be saved "by faith 
alone!" 

[Turns her head, as if at inter- 
ruption.] 

Who is it, Marie? Omarkanandi? 
Ask him to come up. Good-bye, Helen, 
do run in again. 

[Watches her go out, and sighs.] 

Poor, trivial thing, she hasn't the ca- 
pacity for great thoughts and spiritual 
experiences, as I have. 

36 



SWEET KITTY AND THE 
LITTLE BLIND GOD 

Characters : 

Kitty Bellairs, of many adorers. 

Captain Gregory McNare, one of the 
many. 

Scene — A garden. 

Kitty Speaks. 

[Gayly.] Faith, Captain McNare, 'tis a 
poor gallant ye are! Don't waste all 
the time abusin' poor Barry Sullivan — 
sure, he's no lover av mine. Av course, 
he's in love with me, but he's no lover 
av mine. 

[In reply to his objection to her 
numerous beaux.] 
Ah, worra-worra, as long as there's 
breath in Kitty Bellairs there'll be min 
to love her! I don't mind — I'm used to 
it. Can't ye get used to it? . . . No, I 
'spose not — ye 're a Scotchman. Man, 
there was a good Irishman sphoiled whin 
they made ye a Scotchman! 

[She moves about nervously, talk- 
ing rapidly to cover her real 
feelings.] 

37 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

How much toime have ye got? 
Fifteen minutes — fifteen minutes ? 
[Laughs.] Well, 'tis plenty — the fate 
av nations has heen changed in less. 

[Turns to him and speaks anx- 
iously.] 
Where are ye ordhered to? An' whin 
are ye comin' back! Ye don't know? 

[Holds out her hands and pleads 
impulsively.] 

Ah, take me with you! Why can't I 
go with the byes? Why do I have to sit 
home with the women, and worry and 
think and think ye 're all dead? 

[Laughs away her seriousness.] 

What good would ye be to me, thin? 
A rigiment av dead ones? Well, ye 
haven't said a wor-rd, as usual I'm doin' 
all the talkin'. I was under the impres- 
sion, Captain McNare, that ye came to 
say good-bye to me. Faith, ye Scotch — 
your tongues weren't made for talkin'. 
[Still he doesn't speak, and with 
a laugh she does a step or two 
of the Highland Fling, singing 
to the tune of "The Scots wa* 
Hae, 9 ' etc.] 

The Scots wa' hae wi' Wallace bled, 

Had better be too wary 
To touch ane hair upon the head 

Av Gregory McNare-y! 

38 



SWEET KITTY 

For to his countree lie is wed, 

An' he is most contrary, 
His heart is stane to lassies fane, 
This Gregory McNare-y! 
Scotch, an' that wouldn't fetch ye? 

[Stands rooted to the spot, the 

smile dying on her face at his 

words. A look of terror grows 

there. She repeats his words 

mechanically.] 

Stop my foolin' — can't play with ye? 

Coquette! Playin' with honest hearts 

like rubber balls? Makin' love to half 

the regimint? ... No puppet to be 

jerked at me whim? Oh, Gregory! 

[Almost sobs, but gets herself in 
hand and lets her indignation 
have full swing.'] 
Well, sor, whin ye've finished yer ser- 
mon, I'll say my say. What about a 
man who follows a girl about day in 
day out, till the whole rigimint is talkin' 
an' winkin' about it — permits himself, 
dear knows why, to be jealous av her-r, 
an' yet niver once, by word or deed, has 
he said to her he loves her, or asked her 
to be his wife. And why? Because he's 
a coward — a skulkin', black-hearted 
coward and a Scotchman! There ain't 
an Irishman in the rigimint that hasn't 
said his say an' taken his "No" loike a 
man, an' there isn't wan av thim I don't 

39 ' 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

love like a brother, God bless 'em — but 
you — ye 're afraid ye '11 be made ridicu- 
lous iu the eyes av the rest of 'em, so ye 
— go — go, before I say what I'll be sorry 
for! 

[With superb gesture of scorn, 
she dismisses him, then sinks 
doivn in a little moaning heap.] 

He's gone — gone, an' maybe he'll 
never come back again! Ye have to hit 
a Scotchman between the eyes to make 
him propose to ye! [Sobs.] There's 
somebody comin' — I'd better — 

[Gets up and starts to run away.] 

Oh, Barry, is ut you! Yes, I sent 'im 

away, an' he nearly broke my heart. 

Why, the fool's in love with me, but he 

won't tell me so. 

[Her face brightens at his sug- 
gestion.] 

Ye will — ye will, Barry, dear? Ye '11 
make him propose to me, or call him 
out? Oh, good — ye white-robed angel in 
an Irish uniform — how can I thank ye? 
There's only a minute, so run along wid 
ye, quick. 

[He goes; she stands a moment, 
her face alight, then dismay 
dawns there sloivly.] 

40 



SWEET KITTY 

I wish I hadn't sent 'im — maybe 
Gregory don't love me — I — oh! 

[Runs up after Barry, calling 
him.] 

Barry — come back — I — don't do it — 
Barry— Oh! 

[This last as Capt. McNare re- 
turns.] 

[To herself.] Did he meet him, I won- 
der? 

[Draws herself up haughtily and 
speaks to him coldly.] 

Was it me you wished to spake wid, 
Captain McNare? Ye had to come back? 
[Aside.] He did meet Barry! . . . A 
question? Out wid it, me time is short, 
Captain. 

[Utter surprise and delight.] 
Do I love ye — will I have ye? 

[Her expression changes to dis- 
may.] 
Did ye meet Barry Sullivan? Never 
mind — did ye meet him? Then you're 
doin' this out av yer own free will? 

[Both hands go out to him.] 
God bless ye, av course, I do — an' I 
will! . . . What's that? Assembly call? 

[Anxiously.] 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Oh, must ye go? Must ye? Av course, 
ye must — me soldier man! One on the 
cheek — an' the chin, an' the mouth! 
Good-bye, me lover! 

[Watches him out, then waves to 
him and sings half -brokenly.'] 
The Scots wa' hae wi' Wallace bled, 

Had better be too wary, 
To touch ane hair upon the head, 
Av my ane love, McNare-y! 



42 



A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR ON 
THE BEACH 

Characters : 

Mrs. Hardenspiker, with a brood of er- 
ring children. 

Mrs. Jones, her confidante. 

Scene — The bathing beach. 

Mrs. Hardenspiker Speaks. 

[Whiningly.] Now, Joseph Harden- 
spiker, if you cut up any of those mon- 
key-shines you did yesterday, you'll not 
go in bathing again this week! 
[Turns to second child.] 

And Aggie — now, don't pull your cap 
way down like that — Aggie, I want you 
to hold on to the ropes. If you let go 
the rope a single minute you come in ! 
[To her smallest boys.] 

And Dick, if you and Johnny pull Ag- 
gie's feet out from under her, the way 
you did yesterday, you shall not go in 
bathing again this summer, and, what's 
more, you'll get a whipping from your 
father. 

[She catches sight of Mrs. Jones.] 

43 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Oh, good-morning, Mrs. Jones. Lovely 
day, isn't it? Kun away, children, and 
take your pleasure, and remember to 
come the minute I call you. 

[Places a chair beside Mrs. 
Jones.] 

I'll sit right here, by you, Mrs. Jones, 
where I can watch them. Yes, I should 
say I do have trouble with my children, 
they nearly drive me distracted. ... I 
think children are a terrible responsibil- 
ity these days, anyway, don't you? There 
are so many ways for them to get 
spoiled and killed and — 

[Her eye siveeps the horizon and 
lights on Aggie. Calls and mo- 
tions.] 

Aggie — Aggie ! You take hold of that 
rope. Take hold of the rope, or come in. 
[To Mrs. Jones.] 

Yes, of course, she's trying to swim, 
but that's just what I don't want her to 
do. ^ How am I going to know where she 
is, if she's swimming? I want her to 
hold on to the rope, so I can see her. 

This hour on the beach nearly ex- 
hausts me. The nurse, Emma, always 
used to bring the children down, but she 
insists upon this hour for her rest. She 
thinks she is going into nervous prostra- 
tion. All the nurses and governesses of 
our very best people are going into nerv- 

44 



A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR 

ous prostration — so many of my best 
friends tell me that — 

[Looks straight ahead of her, 

half rises and waves her hand 

frantically, calling.] 

Johnny — don't yon do that — don't you 

dive off that boat. I don't care if it is 

f nn ; it isn 't fun for me. You stay right 

out of the water where I can see you. 

What was I saying, Mrs. Jones, when 
Johnny interrupted us ? 

[Leans forward to look up the 
beach, and puts her hand on 
Mrs. Jones to focus her atten- 
tion.] 
Here comes that Miss Miller, and if 
she hasn't got on another bathing suit. 
That's three this week — yes, it is, I've 
counted them. I think she brought one 
trunk of nothing but bathing suits. . . . 
Of course, she never gets them wet, so I 
suppose they don't wear out. 

[Follows Miss Miller with her 
eye.] 
Oh, I don't think she's such a beauty. 
Well, there 's something about her face I 
don't like and, my dear, she's the aw- 
i'ullest talker, runs on like the mill 
wheel, or the mill dam, or whatever it is, 
that runs on. . . . You know, she 
brought ten trunks. Urn-hum, the hotel 
porter told Mrs. Peter's maid so, and 

45 



210 RE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

she told Emma and Emma told me, but 
I can't see what she brought in them. 
Oh, yes, she has a good figure, but then, 
why not? Oh, yes, she does, you can al- 
ways tell. 

[Looks off over water and spies 
Dick. Calls to him.] 

Dick — Dick — let Aggie alone. ] don't 
want her to float — you go away and let 
her alone. 

[Leans forward eagerly.] 

Who on earth is that? Why — it's 
Mrs. G. Wallington! Well, would you 
think a woman with a figure like that 
would risk it in the water? Isn't she a 
sight? You never can tell what women 
will do! Oh, I don't doubt she's a very 
nice woman, but she has the worst chil- 
dren I ever met anywhere in my life. I 
can't allow my children to associate with 
them at all, and, my dear, she had the 
nerve to tell me that she should think 
I'd be tempted to put my children in a 
reform school! 

[Jumps up and runs to water's 
edge and calls.] 

Joseph — don't do that. Get down off 
that man's shoulders — you're not to 
dive — 

[Rides her face at sight.] 

46 



A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR 

Has lie come up yet, Mrs. Jones, I 
can't bear to look. What! 
[Looks up quickly.] 

It isn't Joseph at all. It's one of 
those G-. Wallington youngsters — it 
wouldn't hurt him to get good and 
drowned ! 

[Sits down indignantly, tapping 
her foot.] 

I wonder where Johnny is? Do you 
see him anywhere? Yes, it is hard to 
tell them apart in the water. I tried to 
get my children to wear little flags in 
their hair, but they won't do it. 
[Galls.] 

Oh, Aggie — where is Johnny? Why 
don't you keep your eye on your broth- 
ers, Aggie? There's Dick! [Calls.] 
Dick — Oh, Dick — where is Johnny? 
[Louder.] Where is Johnny? Come 
here to me. He'd keep me shouting all 
day, rather than come in and see what I 
want. 

[To Dick, who approaches.] 

I asked you where Johnnv was? Gone 
to the raft? Gone to the raft? 
[Outburst of indignation.] 

You know you're not allowed to go to 
tne raft? Haven't you been told every 
day this summer you were not to go to 
the raft? I know you haven't gone, but 
your brother, John, has, hasn't he? 

47 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

You're none of you to go near that raft 
— you go out there just as fast as you 
can, and bring him in here to me. 

[Motions him off and turns to 
Mrs. J ones. 1 
I'll never let them go in again. I'm 
going to make them all come out. 
[Calls to Aggie.] 
Aggie — Aggie — come in now — time's 
up. You heard me! 

[To Mrs. Jones.] 
I believe in telling a child to do a 
thing just once. I do hate a whining, 
nagging woman, don't you? 
[To Aggie.] ^ 
Aggie Hardenspiker, did you hear 
me? Don't argue — just come out. Get 
Joseph and come at once. You don't see 
him? 

[Anxious glance about.] 
Dear me, now Joseph is lost. Do you 
see him, Mrs. Jones? Where, Aggie? 
Yes, I think that is Joseph. 

[Waves handkerchief and calls.] 
Joseph, J-o-s-e-p-h ! Aggie, you call and 
I'll wave. 

[Beckons madly with handker- 
chief.] 
I know he sees us, he's looking right at 
us. 

[Seizes Aggie in alarm.] 
Aggie, where has he gone? He threw 

48 



A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR 

up his arms and yelled and went down ! 
That's the way they do when they have 
cramps. 

[Tears down beach calling to man 
in distance.'] 
Mr. Jordan, will you go out to save 
Joseph? My son, Joseph. He has a 
cramp. He shrieked and went down. 

[Runs other direction and calls 
another man.] 
Mr. Crosby, will you go to Joseph? 
Shrieked, cramps, went down! He is 
right over there somewhere. 

[Comprehensive gesture, includ- 
ing the entire ocean. She be- 
gins to iveep and moan.] 
What shall I tell his father if Joseph 
is drowned? He'll say I didn't keep 
my eye on him. It would be just like 
that boy to try it, and see how it felt to 
get drowned. If he's gone and done it, 
he shall not go in bathing again. 
[Sobs, head in hands.] 
"What? He's come up, you say? Where 
—I don't— 

[Locates him, great anxiety on 
her face.] 
There he is — there's Joseph! Why — 
he's grinning! 

[Turns angrily to Aggie.] 

49 



2 [ORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Aggie — why, where is Aggie? Gone 
in again? 

[Discovers Aggie playing in the 
"briny." She marches to wat- 
er's edge, speaking with firm- 
ness.'] 
Aggie Hardenspiker, did yon hear me 
tell you to come in? I have spoken for 
the last time. 

[Walks back to chair and sits 
down angrily.'] 
Yes, I see they're bringing him in. I 
suppose it was one of his jokes. 

[To men who have gone to the 
rescue of Joseph.] 

Thank you, Mr. Jordan — much obliged 
to you, Mr. Crosby. . . . Now, Joseph 
Hardenspiker — what do you mean by 
drowning yourself like that, right be- 
fore your mother's face? Well, you 
came as near it as you could, didn't you? 
I never would have gotten all worked up 
like this if I hadn't thought you were 
dead. You will settle this matter with 
your father. You take your sister and 
go to the house. 

[Watches their departure and 
then turns to look for the re- 
maining two.] 

I wouldn't let them go in at all, if it 
wasn't that I hate to spoil their pleas- 

50 



A PLEASANT HALF-HOUR 

ure. Do you see Dick and John yet? Oh, 
yes, here they are now. 

[As last culprits approach.] 
Well, Eichard and John, you've be- 
haved nicely this morning, haven't you! 
Making your poor mother a laughing 
stock for the whole beach. You are both 
going to get a good whipping from your 
father. I don't care if you didn't go to 
the raft, you'll get the same whipping 
John does, on general principles. 
[Rises haughtily.] 
You'll not go in bathing again this 
year. What? You'd rather not than 
have me come along? 

[Turns to Mrs. Jones in pained 
surprise.] 

Do you hear that, Mrs. Jones? That 
is the way a mother's sacrifice is ac- 
cepted. How truly the poet spoke when 
he said — 

"Sharper than the serpent's rattle is 
the tooth of an ungrateful child!" 

[Turns to children and waves 
them up the beach.] 

Eichard and John — to your father ! 

[She folloivs them, with her hand- 
tier chief to her eyes.] 



51 



HOW GENTLEMEN ARE MADE 

Characters : 

Teddy — a victim of the "Dancing-school 
Method." 

Miss Fay — the dancing teacher. 
Louisa Allen — one of the belles. 
Scene — Ball room of a Club House. 

Teddy Speaks. 

Aw — I don't want to dance this time, 
Miss Fay. Well, I can't, anyhow, be- 
cause I forget the steps. Well, I can't, 
anyhow, because I haven't got any pard- 
ner. 

[Miss Fay takes his hand and he 
protests in quick alarm.'] 
Oh, I don't want to be interdooced to 
her — I — 

[Boujs ungraciously before Louisa 
and says, sullenly.] 
Hoddy-do, Louisa Allen, do you want 
to dance? Ma'am! I mean what, Miss 
Fay? 

[Puts hand on heart, feet to- 
gether, and makes mock bow, 
according to Miss Fay's direc- 
tion.] 

53 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Glad to meet you, Louisa Allen. May 
I have the pleasure of this dance? 

[While bending low before her, he 
runs out his tongue at her, with 
sly glance at Miss Fay.] 

Ma 'ami I mean, what Miss Fay? Aw, 
no, she don't have to show me the waltz 
step, I know it all right. I was just a- 
foolin' you. 

[Surrounds Louisa with his arm, 
and spreads his fingers to get 
grip on her hand. Says to her, 
curtly. ,] 

Come on, now. Ma'am? I mean, what, 
Miss Fay? Oh, I forgot — put your hand 
around here. 

[Clasps her hand properly, and 
squeezes it hard, screwing up 
his face with delight, as she 
screams.] 

What are you yelling about? Aw, I 
did not squeeze her hand, Miss Fay; I 
was only gettin' hold of it. . . . Come 
on, now. 

[Begins to see-saiv her right arm 
up and down, counting one-two- 
three loudly. Turns to her in 
disgust.] 

Well, why don't you come on? I can't 
do nothin' if you don't come on, can I? 

54 



HOW GENTLEMEN ARE MADE 

I was just asthr her to come on, Miss 

Fay. Now — one-two-three — 

[Gets started doing the one-hvo- 
three hop step of a child learn- 
ing to dance, sawing his arm up 
and down, a look of entire se- 
riousness on his face. He in- 
dulges in breathless conversa- 
tion, bettveen counts.] 

Say, do you like this dancin' school? 
One-two-three! You don't! You hate 
it? I do, too. Standin' round on one 
foot an' twiddlin' the other. I thought 
girls always liked it. One-two-three! I 
hate girls — always bawlin' an' tellin' 
tales! You don't? I bet you do! 

[Whirls her wildly, and then 
shouts at her.] 

Say, keep off my feet, will you? I do 
not get 'em in your way — you keep a- 
gettin' on 'em all the time. 

[They take a few turns in si- 
lence.] 

Have you got any brothers, er pups, 
er anything? Two? How old? Ten an' 
'leven? Oh, brothers, you mean, not 
pups. ... Do they come to this danc- 
in' school? I bet they don't. I wouldn't 

55 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

come, either, if my mother didn't make 
me. 

[Large smile irradiates his coun- 
tenance, as he puffs and dances 
in a circle. ] 
She give me a bull pup this year, fer 
comin'! 

[Looks about and spies Miss Fay 
in the distance.] 
Say, she ain't a-lookin' at us. Fer 
goodness sake, let's quit. 

[They sit at right, Teddy's eye 
following Miss Fay suspicious- 
ly. He grins at her.] 
She's a jerkin' Reddy Burke around 
in the waltz. Ain't he the limit? He's 
a regular Mama-boy, he is. Uh-huh. All 
the fellers at our school can lick 'em, 
an' then his mother comes an* tells the 
teacher, an' the teacher tells the prin- 
zable, an' she tries to find out who done 
it, but she can't. Ain't he the limit? 

[Gleam of joy lights his coun- 
tenance.] 
Say, watch me trip 'im, when he comes 
by here. Wait till he gets up here, 
now . . . 

[Waits, his eye glued to ap- 
proaching boy. At proper time 
he thrusts out his foot, and 
then breaks into shrill laugh- 
ter.] 

56 



HOW GENTLEMEN ARE MADE 

Oh, 'sense me, Eeddy, I hope I didn't 
hurt yon! 

[To Louisa, he adds.] 
Did you see him bite his tongue? I 
bet it hurt him awful ! Aw, that wasn 't 
mean — I only did it for fun. 

{Conversation languishes, after 
her reproof, and he shows signs 
of nervousness, until he hap- 
pens upon a congenial topic] 
Say, did you say you had a pup ? What 
kind is it! A setter? How big! Only 
that big? Humph — I bet my bull pup 
can lick the spots off.'n your pup. Aw, 
I bet he can — he's the champeen licker 
of our whole block. He eats dogs right 
up, bones an' all. Honust! 

[He is seized ivith an inspiration. 
He leans toward her with en- 
thusiasm.] 
I tell you — next Saderday, when we 
gotta come to this old dancin' school, 
let's me an' you bring our pups with 
us. We can sneak off down under the 
porch an' sick 'em on each other. Oh, 
I won't let my pup eat your pup up, I 
mean sick 'em on f er fun. 

[Hasty glance in Miss Fay's 
direction.] 
Aw, no, she wouldn't know about it. 
She'd think we'd gone to get a drink of 

57 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

ice-water. Come on. Will you — it ud 
be a lot of fun — what? 

[Turns and sees Ms tormentor 
approaching.'] 
Aw, there she comes. Just when a 
feller is beginning to have a little fun, 
she always butts in. 

[Rises and faces Miss Fay.] 
We were a dancin' a long time, Miss 
Fay, till Louisa Allen got so awful tired. 
Didn't you, Louisa? Aw, do I have to 
do it again? ... I don't want to be a 
gentleman — what's the use? No — I got 
a pardner. 

[Turns in surprise to Louisa.] 
Why, yes, I have. You're my pard- 
ner. Aw, I did, too; I ast you before 
we begun, didn't I? I can't keep a-astin' 
you all the time! 

[Drags her to position.] 
Say, I tell you — you be my pardner all 
the time, an' then I won't have to bother 
to ast nobody! 

[Counts loudly, and exits danc- 
ing.] 



58 



HOMESICK 

Characters : 

Mammy — a real aristocrat from South 
Carolina. 

Miss Lucy — her charge. 
Scene — Dressing room, next Miss 
Lucy's bedroom. 

Mammy Speaks. 

[She stretches, yawns, feels her 
joints and grunts.'] 
Dawg's-foot! But dese yere oP bones 
is stiff. 

[Starts, as if called, and moves 
toward door.] 
Yas'm-yas'm, Miss Lucy, I'se a-com- 
inM 

[Stops midway and listens.] 
Yo, don't want me? Jes' want to re- 
min' me ob dat dinner pawty! Yo' done 
toP bout dat, Honey. Yas'm. I'll be 
ready at seben 'clock. Yas'm, I gwine 
take a HP res— don' yo' worry 'bout me, 
Honey-lamb; I'se all right! 

[Comes down the room with look 
of utter indignation and bursts 
out angrily.] 

59 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Anudder dinnah pawty! Ma Lawd, 
dey's no res' fo' de wicked! I wouldn't 
live up yere — I wouldn't live up yere fo' 
nuthin'. I wouldn't live up yere, if yo' 
gib me all the states between de Palantic 
an' de Asific! Why, it's bad nufT, down 
home, down in Souf Ca'lina, yo' gotta 
wuk two 'free hours evry day, but up 
yere — ma Lawd! Why, I can't even 
walk down de street, slow, lak a lady. 
Somebuddy jes' a-walkin' up de back ob 
ma clothes, an' a-steppin' on de front ob 
ma feet, an' I jes' gotta keep a humpin' 
long, an' a humpin' along, to keep outen 
de way ob peoples. . . ■ I'm moughty 
glad we don't live up yere — we jes' a- 
visitun' yere on some fren's ob Miss 
Lucy. Dey ain't no kin folk, jes' frens v J 
[Growing dissatisfaction with the 

situation.] 
Why, I ain't neber see no such folks. 
We git up in de mo'nin' an' git ready 
fo' a lunch pawty, after dat we gotta go 
to a tea pawty — den we rush off to a 
dinner pawty, and' befo' we half froo 
dere we got to go to ball pawty! I tell 
yo', dis yere ol' woman gwine go home 
done up in fo' boards, if she don' git 
some res' moughty soon. 

[Gets a chair and sits down very 

sloivly, groaning and rubbing 

her joints.] 

60 



HOMESICK 

Ya-ya-ya ! 

[Settles back in chair, arms 
crossed.'] 

I keep a-sayin' to inaself in de words 
ob de Good Book, "Bressed is de uses 
ob diversity." I'se moughty glad I'se 
nuthin' but a pore ol' nigger woman, 
ain't got to keep dressin' up fo' to go 
roun' to all dese yere functionaries! 
/"Why, Miss Lucy, de pore lamb, she 
ges' got to keep dressed up all de time, 
an' she got to put up wid dese yere 
No'tlrun beaux. I heah 'em — I know de 
way dey talk to her — I heared one ob 
dem de udder night, a-talkin' to her. . . . 

"Miss Lucy" — he say, kin' o' slushy 
like — "Miss Lucy, do yo' know what is 
Pa'dise? When de star ob de souf is 
a-shinin' in de Heben ob de no'th — dat's 
Pa'dise." ^ 

An' she jes' laff an' say — 

"Is yo' de serpent? An' who is de 
apple?" Das de way she sass 'im back. 

"No, Miss Lucy; yo' is Eve, but I is 
jes' a pore gen'lman, dat's gwine to be 
glad to git frowed outen de gyarden, if 
dat gwine give you' any pleasure!" 

"I don' know nuffin' gwine give me 
any mo' pleasure than to see yo' frowed 
out!" she sez to 'im. Ya-yah — das de 
way she sass 'im back. / 
[Very indignantly.] 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Takin' cle words ob cle Good Book 
'bout de Gyarden ob Eden in vain, lak 
dat. Nigger woman wouldn't put up wid 
dat. No-sah, she gib dat buck a clomp 
on de side ob de haid, an' tell 'im to 
gwan whah' he's gwine! 

[Suits action to word and catches 
her back with groan.] 

Ma Lawd, dere's dat creek in ma 
back! I ain't bad no sleep fo' a week, 
an' to-night a dinnah-dance-pawty — an' 
to-morrow moli'nin' we got to go on a 
hunt. Yas-sah, a hunt. But I jes' 
drawed de line dere. I says, ' ' Miss Lucy, 
honey, dey ain't a thing on Gawd's 
yearth I ain't gwine do fo' yo', if yo' 
as ' me, but I draw de line on a hunt ! ' ' 
[She sniffs disdainfully.] 

Hunt ! Dat 's what dey call it up yere. 
T'aint no mo' a hunt, den I is a lame 
jack-rabbit. Jes' a lot ob ladies an' 
gen'lmens in dey pink coatses an' dey 
white pantses, dey comes out; an' a 
keeper an' a lot ob dawgs, dey comes 
out, an' den a colored man he brings 
out a pore starved lil' fox, dey been a- 
starvin' fo' 'bout a week, an' den all de 
ladies an' de gen'lmens, an' de keeper 
an' de dawgs, dey all go chasin' after 
dis pore lil' fox, till purty soon he jes' 
fall down an' die fo' lack ob breath, an' 
dev calls dat a hunt! 



HOMESICK 

We got de real thing, down home, in 
SouP Ca'lina. Why, even de niggers 
down dere hunt. Yo' hearn tell 'bout 
possum hunt, ain't yo'? 

[Begins to chuckle at a recollec- 
tion. Her whole body shakes.] 
I 'member once, ma ol' man, Eastus, 
he took some No'thun dude, was down 
there courtin' Miss Lucy, he took him out 
fo' a possum hunt. Eastus he know de 
dude don' know nuffin', so he jes' take 
him off down to de woods, an' he make 
him lie down on his stomach in de un- 
derbresh. « ' Now, ' ' he say, < ' yo ' He dere 
an' keep on a-watchin' while I frow de 
light obdis lantern roun' and when yo' 
see it shine on some eyes — yo' jes' shoot 
quick. ' ' 

Well, dey was a-lyin' dere an' a-lyin' 
dere an' Eastus was a-chucklin' at de 
joke he got on de dude, cause he know 
dey am' no possum goin' to come an' 
nose 'em out— when, all at once, he 
f rowed de light kin' ob brash like, an' 
sho nuff, dey was two shinin' eyes an' 
de dude, he up an' shoot. Clomp — 
somethin' fell down in de bushes. 

"Eastus," says de dude, "g-wan out 
dere an' git dat possum I done shot." 

"Possum? Possum? Dat am' no 
possum," Eastus says, " I think yo'done 
shot a elephalunt!" 

63 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 



"G'wan out an' see." 

"No, sail — no, sah — I ain' gwine out 
dere to monkey wid none ob yo' daid 
wild animalses." 

"Come long, yo' ol' fool, I'll pick it 
up." So dey went a tip-toein' up to 
what de shot. An ', what do yo ' think it 
wuz, honey? 

[Long, loud guffaw of laughter, 
ending in chuckles.] 

It wuz Eastus' ol' mule! Eastus, he 
begin to moan an' to groan, an' he say 
he lub dat mule lak a brudder. Had him 
since he wuz a lil' bit ob mule, an' 
brunged him up by han'. He wuk on 
dat pore dude's feelin' so, dat de dude 
gib Eastus twenty dollars fo' dat mule! 
Why, honey, yo' could buy all de ol' 
mules in Souf Ca'lina fo' twenty dol- 
lars ! 

[Laughs loudly.] 

I sell him dat mule f o ' twenty cents ! 
. . . Moughty funny thing 'bout ma ol' 
man, Eastus. When I'm down home in 
Souf Ca'lina, an' got to live long side 
ob Eastus, I think he's the laziest, good- 
fo'-nuthin', ornery niggah, de Lawd 
ever cluttered up de yearth wid, but 
when I'se up yere, so far way from 'im, 
I reckon he ain' de wust niggah de Lawd 
ever made. . . . He ain't sass me much 
— he don't dare! He don't 'buse me 

64 



HOMESICK 

none — not sence de fust time, when I 
frowed a flat-iron at his haid. I gwine 
be moughty glad to see Rastus, when I 
git home. An' Liza — she's ma' oldest 
gal. She got de cabin nex' to mine. Liza 
she hab got the cutest HP pickininny in 
de state ob Souf ' Ca'lina — she hab. Dat 
chile she come into ma cabin, long 'bout 
dis time ebery evenin' an' she look up at 
me, an' say — " Granny, I done come in 
fo' yo' to demuse me!" "Denmse to' — 
demuse yo'! G'wan home an' demuse 
yo'self, yo' lil' sass-box!" u Aw, now, 
Granny, yo' know yo' gwine do it. Sit 
down, Granny, how yo' reckon I can sit 
in yo' lap, if yo' stanin' up?" 

Den she jes' push me into ma big ahm 
chaih, an' she clomb up in ma lap, an' 
put her haid on ma bosom. 

[Site cuddles the child against 
her } smiling.'] 

Den she look up at me an' say — "Now, 
yo' gwine tell me 'bout de San' Man." 
Ma Lawd, I reckon I done tell dat chile 
'bout de San' Man ten hundred times, 
but I alius do it, when she as' me purty. 

[She rocks gently and half croons, 
half sings the lullaby e.] 



65 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

THE SAN' MAN. 

When de moon is a risin' an' de day is 
sinkin' fas' — 
When de whip-will cries, when de 
whip-will cries, 
Dat's de time de lil' chillnns come a- 
troopin' in to bed, 
Kubbin' sleepy eyes, rubbin' sleepy 
eyes. 

Den de San' Man comes flyin' firm his 
home behin' de Moon, 
Heah 'im callin' yo'? Heah 'im call- 
in' yo'? 
See him fro' de san', chile, from his 
bundle made o' dreams, 
Off to sleep yo' go — Mammy rockin' 
slow. 

Go to sleep, ma honey, 

San' Man at de do'; 
Go to sleep, ma honey, 

San' Man git yo' sho' — 
Heah's a rabbit-foot to keep, 
Conjer man off while yo' sleep, 
Close yo' eyes now, don' yo' peep, 
San' Man at de do'! 

[Rocks gently, repeating the last 
line softly and more softly un- 
til baby is asleep. All at once 
she starts at Miss Lucy's call. 

66 



HOMESICK 

She looks all about her, at the 
room, down at her empty arms, 
a look of dismay and of grief 
on her face. She gets up slow- 
ly, and all her homesickness 
comes out in one sentence.'] 
Fo ' a minute I thought I wuz back in 

Gawd's country — back in SouP Ca'lina! 

Yes'm, Miss Lucy, Pse a-comm', honey, 

I'se a-cominM 

[She shuffles out slowly.] 



67 



AN HOUR WITH A MODERN 
MARTYR 



Characters : 

The long-suffering Photographer. 
The Young Mother with her " first 
Olga Olsen — lately "over." 
Scene — A photograph gallery. 



> > 



Young Mother Speaks. 

Good-afternoon, Mr. Smith. Yes, I've 
got the Baby. I thought that girl you 
had in here would never go. I was so 
afraid the Baby would wake up and cry. 
Yes, he's asleep and I thought I 
wouldn't waken him till I had to; he's 
always so sweet when he first wakes up. 
[Sits down gingerly so Baby ivill 
not waken.] 

Well, I want him taken in his coat and 
bonnet first, all by himself. You see, 
his grandmother on his father's side 
sent him his coat, and she lives in Kan- 
sas, so she wants a picture of him in it, 

69 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

and then I want some in his christening 
robe and some in — 
[To Baby.] 
Why — is he waked up? What's de 
matter, lubhy-dubby, ee ain't a-going to 
cwy, is 'um? 

[Shakes him up and clown.'] 
I never knew him to do this before — 
he is always so cute when he wakes up. 
[Puts him over her shoulder and 
pats him.] 
Now, he's doin' to be Mummy's liP 
man — I dess it wuz a pain, wuzn't it? 
[To photographer.] 
You'd better get him quick now, be- 
fore he begins again. 
[Hotly.] 
Well, my goodness, why didn't you 
get your plates ready while he was cry- 
ing? 

[Gets up and goes toivard high 
chair.] 
You want me to put him in that? I 
don't think he'll stay, but if you want 
him there, I'll try it. Shall I put him 
in, facing front? Oh, sideways — why do 
you want him sideways? To make his 
mouth look small? Why, he hasn't a 
large mouth, he has a little one, and 
everybody thinks it's such a sweet 
snape. 

[Puts Baby in chair.] 

70 



A MODERN MARTYR 

Now, darling, be nice boy an' sit up 
straight- — 

[She kneels in front of him to 
hold him on chair, and goes on 
in the usual idiotic fashion.'] 

Turn now, langli a HP — 
[To photographer.] 
Hurry up, now! Smile at Mummy, 
lttv tunnin'. 

[Claps her hands, ivhistles and 
clucks.] 
Dass a nice boy — now den. . . . 

[To photographer.] 
Haven't you gotten it yet? Well, 
you're so slow. You'd better get all 
ready now, before I put bim down. 

[Takes Baby up and jumps him 
up and down.] 
Beady now? Well, I'll put him back. 

[Puts Baby doivn in chair.] 
Now, den, Baby, dess one more HP 
smile — why, I didn't see him move. You 
can't expect him to sit perfectly still, 
with no one to hold him. I did say I 
wanted one alone, but if he won't sit 
still I'll have to hold him. 

[Takes Baby up, sits down, and 
puts him over shoulder.] 
Why, Baby, I never knew you to act 
like this. Sit this way? Well, but he'll 

71 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

kick his feet if I stop patting him, and I 
can't pat him in the picture, can II 

[She begins to take his bonnet 
and coat off.] 

Maybe he's too hot. He's such a 
strange child, so smart about people. 
Xow, I don't think he likes you very 
well — the minute he makes up his mind 
he doesn't like people, he acts like this. 
Yes, the doctor says he's wonderful for 
three months! Now, oo' sit up like lil' 
sojer boy for Mummy. 

[To photographer.] 

If you could whistle and clap your 
hands while you're taking it — he likes 
that. Now, den, sweety, — there — quick! 
Oh, dear. You see, he doesn't like you. 
Why, Baby! [Proudly.] See, how strong 
he kicks? 

[Gets up and ivalks with him.] 

Why, he's so mad — why — I think he's 
getting hysterical ! Oh, I must get him 
right home, — 

[Begins getting him wrapped up.] 

Maybe we ought to call the doctor 
here. You 've thrown him into hysterics, 
that is what you've done. I don't think 
vou have any tact with children at 
all. ... 

[Gets up, Baby in arms.] 

When can I get my proofs! You 
haven't got anything? Do you mean to 

72 



A MODERN MARTYR 

say that I've wasted this whole after- 
noon, and risked my child's life, and you 
haven't gotten any picture? Baby's 
fault? How dare you say it's Baby's 
fault, you wicked child-hater. I'll just 
send my husband around here to have 
you arrested for libeling my child! 
[She flounces out.] 

Olga Olsen Speaks. 

Ha-do. I vant to haf ma pitture 
tooken. Vat size? I dunno. Cabinet? 
No — I don't vant a cabinet — I vant a 
pitture. Oh — ya-as, cabinet pitture — 
how moach? Dollar-fifty a dozen? Veil, 
but I don' vant a dozen — I only vant von 
for ma fella'. I can't git von — veil, I 
take two, den. Gotta take six? How 
moach ? Sivinty-five ? 

[She considers it gravely.] 

Veil, yus' wrap them oop, I take them 
right 'long. Oh, you ain' got dem yet 
— you got take dem? Oh, ya-as. 

[She takes position he suggests.] 

Is dese ver' I am to stood? I got-ta 
look at dat 'ting? Veil, it won't hurt 
me ven vou do ut, vill ut? I am shmil- 
in\ 

[Stands, hands clasped on stom- 
ach, with sickly grin.] 

73 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Did you got him? I am' heerd you 

do ut. I git anudder proof? Oh, ya-as. 

[Sits in chair, a- ell forward, 

hands awkwardly draped over 

her knees, toes turned in, head 

stretched forward, with same 

sickly grin.] 

Foot ma foots togedder? Oh, ya-as. 

Ya-as, I am shmilin'. 

[Jumps at his remark that it is 
over.] 

^ You got anudder. You awful queeck, 
ain't you? I yus' take dem along now. 
Got-ta devel-devel — I dunno dat vord. 
No — I can't coom till Tarsday. Pay you 
now? No — not till I got de pitture." No? 
Veil, how I know you are honust man? 
Oh, I get a tickut? Veil, 

[Examines it carefully.] 
vat does de tickut let me in to? Oh, I 
git de pittures vid de tickut? . . . Olga 
Olsen— 333 Hegewich Street. 

[Looks at ticket.] 
Now, dis is de proof? No — ut is de 
tickut. Ya-as, cooni on Tarsday fur de 
pittures? Bring dis proof? Oh — dis 
ain't de proof — dis is de tickut to git de 
proof. Ya-as — veil, I dunno — 

[Goes out, inspecting ticket, as if 
hypnotized, muttering to her- 
self.] 

74 



WHEN MEN PROPOSE 

Characters : 
Marguerite Arden, an American girl. 
Herr Adolph Kirchoff, of Berlin. 
Honorable Archie T'witt, of London. 
Monsieur Alphonse Lecouvre, of Paris. 
Carter Cobb, of little old New York. 
Scene — Promenade deck of an ocean 
liner. 

Herr Kirchoff Speaks. 

[Saunters along deck with the 

military hearing of a German 

officer, stops beside Miss Ar- 

den's chair, and clicks his heels 

together in military salute.'] 

Fraueein Arden, goot morgen-morning ! 

May I de honor haf, you to seet beside? 

[She assents. He places chair, 

sits and deposits hat, almost in 

one movement. Inspects her 

earnestly.] 

Franlein Arden, it iss bad you do not 

German spik, for I do not English goot 

spik. . . . You an American voman are, 

75 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

eh, Fraulein Arden? Ach, eet iss unniis- 
tookable, die American voman — dere is 
no von like her in die vorld! 
[Look of surprise.] 

You laff, nicht wahr ? But soon all de 
country of Europe die youth to America 
vill send die vife to get! I, too, to 
America for meine vife come. 

[With great seriousness.] 

^Ach, Fraulein Arden, ven I am seek, 
mit vat you call der seaseekness, I think 
it iss too much — I vill home go for meine 
vife, but now, I am full of health und I 
forgot haf . 

[He beats his chest to assure her 
he is sound.] 

Fraulein Arden, eet iss tell to me dat 
in your country dere iss no need to der 
vater to go, if die young fraulein is 
please, nicht wahr? Die American frau- 
lein her own husban' can pitch out, 
nicht wahr? Aber ya — pick out. 

You eine unmarried voman are, Frau- 
lein! Dass iss ganz goot. Fraulein Ar- 
den, Ich leibe dich — I lof you. I haf die 
estheem — die respeg for you, as high as 
der smoke stack! Yill you mit me to 
marry? 

[She interrupts him, and he stops 
in his fight, astonished and dis- 
composed .1 

76 



WHEN MEN PROPOSE 

Ve do not Know each odder? But 
yes, I know you fur three days — eet iss 
enough. Come mit me to Berlin back, 
und ve vill mit meine mutter lif. She 
iss old und crank — seek — und need of a 
daughter haf. Ve vill work und safe 
und ven meine mutter dead iss, ve vill 
be — reech ! 

[At this point she bursts out 
laughing at him. He bridles 
with outraged pride and dig- 
nity.] 
Fraulein Arden, you misunderstood 
haf. I offer you my honorable lof. Vas 
sagen sie? If I am die only man in die 
vorld, you vill not with me marry ? Ach 
— you haf die cruel hertz. In my coun- 
try die vimmen are glad to get der goot 
husband. . . . Eet iss tell me all die 
American vimmen mad are to marry mit 
der foreigner, und now I find eet iss all 
lies — lies ! 

[Rises and towers above her an- 
grily.] 
You say, "No" to mem honorable lof 
— you laff ! It is enough — I go ! 

[With military salute he marches 
stiffly away.] 

Monsieur Lecouvee Speaks. 

[Softly.] C-est une belle nuit, Mademoi- 
selle Ardenne! What vou call "beauti- 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

full" All, Mademoiselle, I long to teach, 
you la belle Francais — eet ees so difficul ' 
to say ze thought poetic in — en Anglais. 
Eet ees so pauvre — so bald — zese An- 
glais! Mais en France, Mademoiselle, 
eet ees different — toutes le monde spik 
poetry en France ! An' ze lovaire — ah — 
eet ees not so difficult for ze lovair en 
Francais. You Americaines — you have 
not ze time to develop ze — ze — "lesmots 
d 'amour," what you call ze love-word. 
You say — "my dear" — bah! "Darling" 
non, non, non, non! "Sweetheart" — 
mais nous, nous avons, "Mon amour," 
"mon coeur," "ma bien aimee," . . . 
ah, Mademoiselle, eet ees not so difficult 
for ze lovaire en France. 

[This last with a deep sigh and a 
heart-breaking glance.] 
Mademoiselle, you are more beautiful 
than ze night — you are ravissant! 

[Another deep sigh.] 
You say, why do I sigh? Mademoi- 
selle, eet ees a sigh-able thing when a 
man is burning up wiz love an' no 
tongue to speak it out. Ah, Mademo- 
iselle, c'est moi! Je meur — I die for 
love of you, sweetheart! I burn — I 
smoke, I am Vesuvius — I am consume, 
I am reduce to ze ash ! Do you, too, feel 
zese burning? 

[Starts at her laughter.] 

78 



WHEN MEN PROPOSE 

Mademoiselle, je ne comprend pas — 
you say — ? 

[Rises angrily.] 
Mademoiselle, vous avez tort, I, Al- 
phonse Lecouvre, un joke! 

[Regains his composure and be- 
gins to laugh softly, very un- 
pleasantly, — as if to cover his 
retreat.] 
Mademoiselle, I make ze mistake. I 
forget you are la belle Americaine, wiz 
a sense of humor strongair zan love or 
repect or courtesy. For une moment I 
took you en serieux — pardon — vous avez 
raison — I am un joke I laff ! Bon soir, 
Mademoiselle — I laff. 

[Swings off jauntily, laughing 
sardonically.] 

Archie Twitt Speaks. 

Aw, how d'ye do, Miss Arden, how 
d'ye do? Fine day, isn't it? Been fine 
crossin' an' all that. Beg pawdon — oh, 
thank you. 

[He sits down, and twirls his 
hat.] 

You'll be glad to be gettin' back to the 
other side, I suppose. Joy of home-com- 
in' an' all that. Beastly bore, this Cus- 
tom House business, isn't it? Rather 
spoils the romance of home-comin'. You 

79 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

don't say? I'm awfully glad to hear 
you say that. Always heard that Amer- 
ican women were so romantic — went in 
for the knight "sans peur et sans re- 
proche." 

I've always liked your American wim- 
men, meself, so healthy an' good-lookin' 
an' original, you know. Yes, always 
thought I might marry an American gell, 
if I went outside me own country, you 
know. Commendable, you say? Ilm — 
[Inspects her closely, almost sus- 
pecting sarcasm.] 

I suppose you know an awful lot of 
American gells, don't you? Couldn't 
pick out a nice one for me, now, could 
you? Haw-haw — not an international 
agency? Haw-haw — awfully clevah of 
you! 

Me requirements? Well — a large, 
healthy, good-lookin' woman, ye know, 
nice temper — clevah — not too clevah. 
I'm blessed if I get on well with these 
awfully clevah wimmen — a fellow never 
knows what they're drivin' at. Of 
course, a fellow wouldn't want his own 
wife to keep him thinkin'. 

No brains at all? Oh, I'd want her to 
have some brains. About equal to mine? 
Oh, no, just average amount of brain — 
ye know — about as much as you've got, 
Miss Arden. I don't mind tellin' you r 

80 



WHEN MEN PROPOSE 

I've had some intention of proposin' to 
you, yes, by Jove, that's the truth. . . . 
You're not up to the requirements, you 
think? Well, maybe not — but I've had 
me eye on you all the way over. 

"Well, if you think you aren't up to it, 
what do you advise? What's that? Go 
back to England? There isn't a woman 
in America with as little sense as I've 
got? 

[Looks at her in great surprise, 
but without resentment.] 

Eeally? Dear, dear. You discourage 
me, you do, indeed. I'll take a few 
turns and think this over, if you'll ex- 
cuse me. 

[Bows and retires muttering.] 

Not a woman in America with as lit- 
tle sense as I've got! 

Carter Cobb Speaks. 

How goes the world with you this 
good day, Marguerite, so sweet — so 
sweet? Do I have to promise to clear 
out at the sound of foreign heels on the 
deck? 

[He stands inquiringly by chair. 

She invites him to sit doivn, so 

he smiles, boivs and accepts.] 

Yes, I've been keeping out of the way, 

so I wouldn't interfere with the foreign 

81 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

embassies. I've watched the war of na- 
tions with much amusement. Who's in 
the lead? 

Fooling aside, I've been hoping you'd 
get enough of those chaps before we get 
back, and turn your attention to an 
American laddy, who loves you mighty 
well and wants you for his wife. 
[Smiles at her.] 

Yes, I know a fellow that answers that 
description. He's just a plain, ordinary 
American citizen, who can't tell a wom- 
an that he loves her in ten different lan- 
guages, nor make a military salute to 
save his life. But he's got a strong 
right arm to work for her, and a big 
heart aching to cherish her, and all he 
wants in this life is a chance to just take 
care of her. 

[Finishes more lightly.] 

I don't suppose he has much show 
with the belle of two continents, but I 
just wanted to tell you about him. 
What? Marguerite, look at me. Oh, 
my dearest! 

[Tableau!] 



82 



NICOLETTA 

Characters : 

Giovanni Dimitri, proprietor of a small 
news stand, on a corner in New 
York. 

Antonio di Navarro, an Italian immi- 
grant, 

Nicoletta, an Italian peasant girl. 

Mr. Howard, a New Yorker and patron 
of Giovanni's. 

Scene — Giovanni's shop. 

Giovanni Speaks. 

Ah, Signor, how do? I am ver' glad 
to see you. 

[He shakes hands with Mr. How- 
ard, smilingly.] 
Si, Signor, I come-a back. I make-a 
de treep to Italia — I make-a de treep 
back to New. York. ... Si, I make-a de 
mon' — I got il bottega — il magazino — 
what you call — shop. Na-na — not make-a 
de treep to Italia on bis'ness — I make-a 
de treep for Nicoletta. 

[He appeals to Howard like a 
child asking sympathy.] 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Signor, you good fren' to GVanni — 
you like to hear 'bout Nicoletta? You 
will seet down? 

[He proffers a chair to Howard, 
and sits beside him, speaking 
most of the time as if to him- 
self. Only now and then does 
he appeal to his hearer.] 
It is long time 'go, in Italia, I make-a 
de love to Nicoletta. Ah, Signor, it is 
ver' beautiful in ma' countree, moch 
blue sky, moch green tree. Not like-a 
New York, na, na, na, ver' beautiful. 

But ev'body zere is ver' poor. Eef 
il padre di famiglia make-a duo soldi a 
day — ah — 'tis ver' good. II famiglia 
getta spaghetti, polenta, . . . but il 
padre di famiglia notta make-a duo 
soldi each day — na, na. Ev'body ver' 
poor zere. So Nicoletta an' me, we can- 
not marry wiz each ozer. 

[His face clouds at mention of 
Antonio and his hands knot.] 
Antonio di Navarro — he ees, what you 
say? Neighbor! Si, Signor, neighbor 
wiz us, an' he say ev'body in New York 
getta reech queek — ev'body make-a de 
mon'. So I say to Nicoletta, "I, Gio- 
vanni, I go to New York, getta reech, an' 
sen' you de mon', eh, Carissima! An' 
she say to me, "Si, si, G'vanni." 

84 



NICOLETTA 

So, Signor, I make-a de treep. Eeet 
is ver' different in New York. I canna' 
spik-a de tongue. I not getta reecli 
queek — na, jus' work-work-work, like in 
ma' countree. Sell-a de peanut, sell-a 
de banan', make-a de music wit' de 
monk — work all time, an' save for Nico- 
letta. An' purt' soon, I gotta de nion\ 

I go to Antonio — he make-a de treep 
wit me to New York, an' now lie go to 
make-a de treep back to Italia. He is 
ma fren', so I go to him, I say, "Here 
is ma mon', tell Nicoletta, G'vanni is 
waiting. ' ' 

[A veritable fury sweeps his 
face.] 

Antonio di Navarro, he take-a de 
mon'; he make-a de treep to Italia; he 
tell Nicoletta GVanni is dead — he keep 
de mon' an' take Nicoletta! 

[He ends hoarsely, and hurries on 
in a frenzy.] 

Giovanni? — what he do, Signor? He 
is in New York, waiting. Ev'ry boat zat 
comes to New York for mont ' I am zere, 
waiting, waiting, an' no Nicoletta, so at 
last' I say — "she is dead." 

Zen come ze word Antonio di Navarro 
have take Nicoletta! Ah, Signor, zen 
I work-a, work-a, work-a ! Sell-a de pea- 
nut — sell-a de banan', make-a de music 

85 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

wit' de monk, an' save, till, at las', I got- 
ta de mon'. 

[Hurries on dramatically.'] 
I make-a de treep to Italia — two day 
I watch an' wait, an' zen when Antonio 
di Navarro go home to Nicoletta, I, Gio- 
vanni, I go, too, Close behin' him in ze 
shadow, I go, too. Up ze stair behin ' 
him, an' wait outside ze door. Purt' 
soon he come out an' go away, an' zen 
Giovanni, he go in. Nicoletta make-a de 
cry upon de floor. 

"Nicolletta! Nicolletta!" 
She look at me like one zat hear ze 
voice of ze blessed Virgin ! 

[Crosses himself hastily, and 
goes on.] 
"Vanni! Vanni!" 
* ' Si, Nicoletta— Vanni. ' ' 
"Na, na — don't keel me, Vanni, don't 
keel me. He tell me you are dead — An- 
tonio tell me you are dead — don't! 
Don't!— " 

[He crouches away, sobbingly, as 
if from fear, and then suddenly 
resuming his oivn expression, 
lie thunders.] 
"Nicoletta — you love Antonio?" 
"Na-na." 

"You love me, G 'vanni?" 
"Si-si, Vanni, I love you." 

86 



NICOLETTA 

I hear heem comin' up ze stair, I wait 
for him inside ze door, an' pur' soon An- 
tonio di Navarro he come in! 

[Pantomime of swift upward 
stroke of the stiletto. He looks 
at body crumpled at Ms feet, 
breathing hard and loud. Then 
he kicks it, and holds out hand.] 
"Come, Nicoletta, come, come, Caris- 
sima. . . ." 

[His eye falls on his listener, and 
a dazed look follows, then he 
comes to himself with a shud- 
der, puts his hand to his fore- 
head, and laughs half-sobbing- 

iy-] 

Signor, I as' you to exscuse me. For 
one moment, I forget — I think I am back 
zere in — 

[Shrugs his shoulders, turns to 
the right and calls.] 
Nicoletta — Nicoletta! Ah, come out 
— come here, Carissima. 

[He takes her hand, patting it 
softly, as if to reassure him- 
self of her safety. Then turns 
to Howard with a flourish, bow- 
ing low.] 
Signor, T make-a de pleasure to pre- 
sent you to my wife — to Nicoletta ! 



87 



A CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 

Characters : 

Teddy, a youthful pilgrim. 

Miss Eleanor, the Sunday school 
teacher. 

Scene — Sunday school room. 

Teddy Speaks. 

Say, now, quit yer shoving Reddy. I 
was not on yer feet — just look where 
your feet is! I bet you a cent Miss 
Eleanor is late. Or, say, I'll match you 
pennies. You got a penny fer the plate, 
ain't you? Sh — cheese it — there's Miss 
Eleanor. 

[Pipes out gayly to Teacher.'] 
Good morning, Miss Eleanor. We 
thought you was going to be late. Git 
over, Reddy! 

[Pushes the offending Reddy. 
Stands up and elongates his 
neck in order to see the plat- 
form.] 
There's the super 'tendent — we're go- 
in' to begin. 

[Looks under seat and all about 
for hymnal.] 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Say, where 's my hymn book? Miss 
Eleanor, somebody's tooken my hymn 
book. Thanks. 

[He pokes Reddy and demands.'] 
What number hymn did he say? 23? 
Aw, he did not, did he? 

[Having found +he place, he stands 
up, and sings most earnestly, 
the booh held up in front of 
him.} 
All hail the flower of Jesus ' name, 
Let Angels phosphate all, 
Bring four, the royal dia-mond, 
An' crown Him, Lord and all. 

[After some pushing and scuffling 
he sits down again.'] 
Aw, she's go in' to ast us good deeds? 
Have you any? . . . No, Miss Eleanor, 
I didn't do any good deeds this week. 
Oh, yes, I did, too. I was goin' to 
drownd six little kittens we had, an' 
then I didn't; I sold 'em fer ten cents 
apiece. Well, it was a good deed, not to 
drownd 'em, wasn't it? 

[Subsides a minute, then giggles.] 
Well, Reddy always says "Took care 
of the Baby" fer his good deed. 

[Holds up his hand and snaps 
his fingers loudly.] 
I got another — I forgot it. I read the 

90 



A CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 

Bible every night this week. My grand- 
mother's go-in' to give me five dollars, if 
I read it all through, an' I'm clear up 
to Pu-salms. Naw, sir, I ain't goin' to 
give that money to the heathens; I'm 
goin' to get a pair of guinea pigs with 
it an' sell 'em. You can make a lot on 
'em. I know a feller that got two an' 
put 'em in the barn one night an' the 
next mornin' six new ones had growed! 
I ast my father about it, an' he said it 
was like the "Begats" in the Bible. 

[Squirms a minute .in silence. 
Whispers to Reddy.] 

Do you know a tex'f Gimme one, will 
you? 

[Giggles.] 

Fanny Smith said " Jesus wept." 
Course it's funny! That's wrong. It's 
" Jesuswept." Yes, I understand it. 
Why — he — it means he swept. In the 
church, I suppose. Cried? Honest? 
Sure, I see. I thought it was "swept." 
Yes, I got one. "Suffering little chil- 
dern to come under me, for of which is 
the Kingdom of Heaven." Yes'm, I 
know what it means, but I can't ex- 
plain it. 

[Listens while text is explained, 
his eyes wandering.] 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Yes 'm, I understand. Take your feet 
over, will you? 

[Snaps his fingers and waves his 
arm.] 

I know — Miss Eleanor, I know. A 
paraniel is something in the Bible that 
ain't true, like a fairy story, like that 
about the fishes an' bread, an* walkin' 
on the water, an' all that. Well, my 
father said nobody could stand up on the 
water. I think it means tread water; 
don't you? 

[Punches Reddy, yawns, and wig- 
gles. Whispers.] 

Gee, I wisht she'd get through with 
paramels. Billy Scott's waitin' to swap 
marbles with me. I heard him whistle. 
Say, look at Lucy Flinn. She's asleep 
an' a fly most went in her mouth. Goody 
there's the super 'tendant now. 

[Dives for his hymn book.] 

What one did he say? Oh, I know 
that one by heart. 

[Gets up, shuffling with his feet.] 

Say, now, don't you go an' shove me 
in the inarch, or I'll smash your face 
when I get you outside ! 

[Sings sweetly as he marches 
out.] 

92 



A CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 

I used to be a bad boy, 

The Devil's willing tool; 
But now, I am a good boy, 

Since I joined the Sunday school. 

Teacher, Teacher, why am I so happy, 

happy? 
Happy, happy, in my own dear Sunday 

school? 



93 



IN THE WINGS 

Characters : 

Jane Gray, an old actress. 
Jane Gray, her young namesake. 
The Nurse. 
Place — The Actor's Home. 

[Jane Gray, bent and feeble, hob- 
bes out onto the porch of the 
Home, leaning on the Nurse's 
arm, and on a cane. Makes her 
way to a chair.] 

Jane Gray Speaks. 

Slowly, Nurse, slowly — these old 
bones of mine are nearly worn out. 

[Leans on back of chair, panting; 
then gets slowly around and 
into chair.] 
That's better — that's better. 

[Looks about her.] 
It's a beautiful day, Nurse; a beauti- 
ful day. Visitor's day, you say? Ah, 
yes, I had forgotten. . . . There was a 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

time when ray day at home was famous 
throughout the land — but now — yes, I'm 
very conifortabe, Nurse. Is the bell 
where I can reach it! That's all, then, 
Nurse ; thank you. 
[Nurse exit.] 
I hear you, Eobin Kedbreast, singing 
up there so blithely. You won't sing so 
gayly when you're as old as I am. . . . 
There never seems to be any old age in 
Nature, on the surface all is so young 
and gay — but underneath there is de- 
cay. . . . 

[Turns face to the right and peers 
at some one approaching.] 
How do you do! Yes, this is Jane 
Gray, or all that is left of her — a sort of 
ruins — a magnificent monument. 

[Laughs brokenly and tries to 
focus her eyes on visitor.] 
You came out from New York to see 
me? Why, that was very kind of you. 
Can you find a chair, or shall I ring for 
some one? Ah, that's right — bring it 
close, my dear; I don't hear very well. 
And now, what is your name, dear? 
[She starts and faces visitor.] 
Jane Gray! My namesake? Why, 
that's very sweet — 

[Pats girl's hand.] 

96 



IN THE WINGS 

That's very sweet. How did it hap- 
pen, dear? Your aunt, Rosa Dane, 
named you after me ? Rosa Dane — Rosa 
Dane — why, I remember Rosa. She sup- 
ported me in the "Lyons Mail"; I re- 
member her well. And how is your aunt, 
child? Dead? Ah, yes, I might have 
known. They're all dead, and I am liv- 
ing on after my time. 

[She lapses into reverie, coming 
hack with start.] 

Where do you live, dear? Pleasant 
Meadows? That, has a very peaceful 
sound. . . . Your father and mother are 
living? Ah, yes, your father is pastor 
there. Pastor of the flock at Pleasant 
Meadows ! 

[Lapses into reverie.] 

Do you go to school, dear? [Starts."] 
What? Going on the stage? You don't 
say? My namesake, and on the stage? 
And that's why ye've come to see me. 
Your father objects, does he? Well, you 
can't blame him. Pleasant Meadows has 
a very protected sound. Yes, yes, dear, 
I know it seems unreasonable to you— 
how the caution of maturity galls youth ! 
— but you must look on both sides of the 
picture before you decide. 

The stage is a hard taskmaster. If 
you enlist in that great army, you must 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

make up your mind to many things. For 
one thing, you can never nave a home; 
you live like a gypsy — now here, now 
there, always moving on. It is my be- 
lief that an actress has no right to mar- 
ry — for she cannot do her full duty by 
her art, her husband and her children; 
one or the other must suffer; so, my 
dear, the actress dedicates herself to one 
companion — Loneliness. 

She must give her life to the public 
to read, like an open book, and if she 
slips, or falls, that public is her sternest 
judge. 

Then there's the money side — stage 
folk are an improvident lot — money 
comes easy — goes easy, and we never 
mark the days of our affluence until we 
are upon the days of our decline. And 
then it is too late. 

[She lapses into reverie again, 
recalled by the girl, ivho pro- 
tests at the picture she draivs.] 

Ah, yes, my dear; then there's the 
other side. There are all the things that 
make the profession fascinating. Travel, 
change, applause, flattery — there's the 
smell of scenery, so sweet to the actor's 
nose ; there is the sound of the orchestra, 
tuning up — the whirr of the curtain ris- 
ing: and then — people — tier on tier, ris- 

98 



IN THE WINGS 

ing clear to the top. It is yours to make 
them laugh — to make thern weep — to 
make them joy and to despair. You — 
you — the creator — you have power to 
do these things, and every minute is full 
of a divine possibility. 

[She has straightened up, as if 
fired by the old thoughts into 
a semblance of youth. Then 
she glances bach, as if at a 
unseen companion.] 

And then comes old age creeping on 
apace, until he stalks abreast, and keep- 
ing step . . . and then at last — the 
Home. Not a home where they welcome 
you and love you — but the Home — the 
Actor's Home. Oh, they are very kind 
to us here, but — the time is long. 

[Shakes off melancholy and 'turns 
to girl merrily.] 

But you'll think I'm a regular Gran- 
ny Grunt. Tell me, dear, what sort of 
thing do you want to do — comedy or 
tragedy. Comedy? Ah, that is well — 
make them laugh — make them laugh. 
Couldn't you do some little thing for 
me, so I can see what sort of actress 
little Jane Gray will be? Good. Push 
back the chairs and set your stage. 

9. 9 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Youth will play to the Birds and to Old 
Age! 

[Turns and ivatches as girl ar- 
ranges stage.] 
Now, what will ye do for me? A bit 
from Nance Oldfield? Ah — I've played 
the part hundreds of times. What scenes 
do you do? Yes, yes, where Alexander, 
the young lover, comes to Oldfield, and 
she tries to disillusion him, according to 
her promise to his father. Good — now, 
begin. 

[She leans on her stick, her face 
alight with interest. Half talks 
to herself in comment.] 

Hm — good voice quality. That's very 
good — very clever. [Laughs.] The dear 
audience, how it does laugh at those 
lines! [Quickly.] Is that your own busi- 
ness? That's good. . . . No — no, child; 
take that speech, up stage at center. No, 
wait — 

[Gets to her feet sloivly and hob- 
bles painfully.] 

These old bones, they mutiny when- 
ever I order action. Now, Oldfield stands 
here — Alexander is there — 

[She begins in cracked' voice.] 
"The emotions, sir, they pass through 
my — what do you call it? 
[Shakes her head.] 

100 



IN THE WINGS 

I see I must enlighten you. Sit down 
— sit down, I tell you. 

[Takes a few steps forward, look- 
ing at Alexander, ivho sits at 
her left.] 

"The tears, my young sir, are as real 
as the rest, — as the sky, and that's paste- 
board; as the sun, and he is three can- 
dles, smirking on all Nature, which is 
canvas, — and they are as real as our- 
selves, the tragedy queens, with our 
sighs, our cries, our sobs, ail measured 
out to us by a five-foot rule. Eeality, 
young gentleman! That begins when 
the curtain falls, and we wipe away our 
profound sensibility along with our 
rouge, our whiting, and our beauty 
spots. . . . 

[Crosses down right.] 

What's that you say? "Those tears 
are dewdrops on the tree of poetry! 
... I vow you'll send me into a fit. 
No, my good soul, if I was to vex my- 
self night after night for Clymtemnes- 
tra & Co., don't you see I should not 
hold together long? No, thank you, I've 
got Nance Oldfield to look after, and 
what's Hecuba to her? For my part I 
don't understand half the authors give 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

us to say. . . . Why, do you know, I 
calculate the exact value of every poet- 
ical passage I have to recite. Listen. 

[Declaims.] 

"Come, come, you spirits, 
That attend on mortal thoughts, unsex 

me here." 
That's worth just tenpence! 
"That my keen blade see not the wound 

it makes, 
Nor Heaven peep through the blanket 

of the dark, 
To cry— Hold, hold!" . . . 

[Makes her climax with big, so- 
norous voice; then claps hand 
to her heart, moaning.] 

It's nothing — my chair, Jane . . . it's 
just my tired old heart. 

[Gets back to her chair painful- 
ly-} 

Well, old friend, couldn't you stand 
just one more scene? . . . No, no, don't 
call any one; I'd rather be alone with 
you, little Jane. 

[Pants a little, her hand to her 
heart.] 

Jane, I've been ready, sitting in the 

102 



IN THE WINGS 

Wings, so long, waiting for the Call-Boy 
Death, and he is slow in coming — slow — 

[Her voice trails off to nothing, 
her left hand flies to her heart 
— then drops, her eyes stare, 
and her head falls bach, the 
mouth open, the body limp.] 

Curtain. 



103 



AT THE FRESH AIR CAMP 

Characters : 

Lizzie Tripp, from the slums. 

Mrs. Morton, head of the Fresh Air 
Camp. 

Lizzie Speaks. 

My name is Lizzie Tripp. I live in 
the basement nnder Casey's saloon. 
Yes'm, I gotta father — I guess I got 
one, I ain't never seen him. Yes'm, I 
gotta mother. She does scrubbin' when 
she's sober. Yes'm, I works when I can. 
Well, I rushes the can fer folks thet 
can't git to Casey's their selves, an' I 
takes care of babies. A lady gimme a 
ticket to come to the country. No, I 
ain't never been to the country before, 
but I know a girl thet come onct. 

[She jumps and screams in 
fright.] 

What's that? What is it! A grass- 
hopper? Is it a animal! Oh, don't 
catch it, it'll bite you. 

[Looks at it in terror.] 

105 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Ain't it awful? [Backs off quickly.] 

Oh, I don't like it to jump that way. 
Spits tobacco! Who gives it the tobac- 
co? . . . Honust? I bet it eats snipes. 
[She looks about suspiciously.] 

Trees? Yes, there's lots of 'em, ain't 
there? Who planted 'em? They just 
grew here? Why don't they grow round 
where I live? We got sun there — some- 
times, and there's dirt — there's a whole 
pile of it back of Casey's, but nothin' 
grows there, ceptin' cans. . . . What's 
the matter with them trees ? They keep 
shiverin' all the time. The wind in 'em? 
Oh! [Peers out half alarmed.] 

What? That blue out there? Is that 
the lake? Water — real water? Is it wet 
water? How'd they carry it out there? 
They didn't carry it? How'd it get 
there? Gawd put it there? How'd he 
do it? Is it piped, like a sewer? I seen 
a sewer onct — they made it in Market 
street, in a big pipe. This ain't piped. 
Well, I don't see how He got it there; 
do you? Go in it — in the water? I 
wouldn't do it — I'd get all wet. Lots 
of children play in it? Don't their 
mothers lick 'em fer it? Nobody gets 
licked here? Won't I git licked fer 
nothin' out here? Gee! 
[Peers out again.] 

Where? I don't see — oh, them yel- 

106 



AT THE FRESH AIR CAMP 

low an' white things! Are those flow- 
ers? Who put 'em there? They're stuck 
in, ain't they? Pick 'em? Me? Nixy— 
you want me to get pinched, don't you? 
I don't swipe nuthin' an' git the cop 
down on you. No cop here? Say, what 
ye givin' me — is dat de truth? 

[Screams and points.] 
Look out — get away — there's a thing 
— a toad? Hully Gee — take it away — 
I'm scairt of it. Did you kill it? It'll 
get me when I go out, won't it? Well, I 
ain't goin' out. . . . [Points.] 

Oh, look at the percession — it ain't 
Fourth of July, is it? Well, where are 
all them kids mar chin' to? Supper — at 
them tables under the trees ? Is it a pic- 
nic? Is there real food out'n a basket? 
Did the supper grow like the trees an' 
the flowers? . . . Sure, I'll go wit' you, 
but I'm scairt to go alone. 

[Looks about almost tearfully.] 
It's so big, an' lonesome, an' empty 
out here, an' I'm kind of 'fraid of 
things; I feel's if I ought to git licked, 
er 's if I'd got religion. ... I gotta 
nickel, a lady gimme on the car comin' 
out, an' I want to give it to somebuddy! 

[Stands awestruck looking at 
Mrs. Morton, ivho has leaned 
over and kissed her. She puts 
her hand to her cheek.] 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

I ain't never been kissed before! 

[With a sudden opening of her 
heart.] 
Say — do you think Gawd bears you 
when you tells Him things ? 

[Lifts her face and holds up her 
hand, as if to call attention to 
her prayer. Reverently.'] 
Gawd, I like this place, an' this lady 
thet kissed me — thank you — Amen! 

[She turns with a soft smile, puts 
her hand in Mrs. Morton's con- 
fidingly, and they go out to- 
gether.] 



108 



AT THE CHARITY FAIR 

Characters : 

Mrs. Dick Kendall. 

Mrs. Matthews. 

Scene — Booth of All Nations at a Char- 
ity Bazaar. 

Mrs. Kendall Speaks. 

[Very sweetly.] Yes, this is the 
Booth of All Nations. May I show you 
some of our beautiful things? Oh, a 
reporter? 

[Manner changes abruptly to one 
of great indifference.] 

Really, you will have to excuse me — 
you are the twenty-third reporter to in- 
terview me to-day. [Curtly.] No, I am 
not an American Indian; I'm a Hun- 
garian Gypsy. The articles on sale are 
all marked, so you can look at them 
yourself. I must attend to customers. 
[Turns to Mrs. Mathews.] 

Aren't these newspaper people tire- 
some? Sell her anything? Of course 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

not — she was only a reporter. Mrs. 
Piatt VanCruger ! That woman ! Why, 
she told me she was a reporter. Well, 
she didn't actually say she was, but she 
asked who else was in the booth, and 
that's the way reporters always begin. 

[Tone full of despair.'] 
She's worth sixty million if she's 
worth a cent! Why didn't you stop me, 
when you saw how I was snubbing her ! 

[She motions toward some one 
passing.] 
Will you look at that Mrs. Caxton! 
Isn't she a fright! How can a woman 
get herself up like that? Her husband 
ought to prevent it. Dick Kendall 
wouldn't stand for it, I tell you, if I 
looked like that. ... Is your husband 
acting up over this Fair! It is so un- 
reasonable, the way men go on. I was 
just pointing out to Dick last night, the 
way we women have to slave over this 
thing, and how some of the husbands 
stand by their wives, and he came back 
at me pretty strong. He almost cursed 
about it; he said the husbands were 
damned fools to put up with it, and it 
was the last time he'd stand for it. . . . 
He says I have all the servants down here 
helping, and he has to walk home every 
night, because I always have the machine. 

110 



AT THE CHARITY FAIR 

and lie has to eat near-food out here, 
because we don't serve any meals at 
home. Some girl charged him a dollar 
and sixty cents for a cucumber sand- 
wich and a cup of tea last night — that 
was his dinner. I told him he was an 
idiot to pay it, but he said the girl was 
awfully pretty. It's disgusting the way 
these young girls go after the married 
men. I just told him, though, he ought 
to be ashamed to complain about these 
little unimportant things, when it was all 
for charity. 

[Nods and smiles to some one ap- 
proaching.] 

Here comes Teddy Blake — watch me 
sell him half the stock! 

[Smiles .invitingly, and shakes 
hands with Teddy.] 

Hello, Teddy; how are you? Oh, do 
I? Thanks— Dick says I look like the 
dickens. Want to see some of our pretty 
things! Yes, we have everything to sell 
that grows. Here's a nice thing, a cop- 
per smoking set — only ten dollars. Got 
six for Christmas — ? 

[Laughs and takes up something 
else.] 

Here's an Alaskan basket — awfully 
cheap — five fifty. You can use it for 
everything. . . . Oh, here's the cutest 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

thing — a combing jacket — we're selling 
dozens of them. You put it around your 
shoulders when you comb your hair. Oh, 
not you — you haven't any hair — your 
wife. All the women are crazy about 
them — so Nan's sure to like it. Here's 
a kimona that goes with it — sort of a 
set. Awfully cheap — fifteen dollars for 
the whole thing. You'll take it — good. 
Well, we're a little short on boxes, so if 
you could just carry it over your arm. 
Thanks. Come round again. 

[Drops change in box, turns to 

Mrs. Matheivs with satisfied 

smile.] 

Didn't I tell you I'd fix him? What? 
Who is getting a divorce — Teddy and 
Nan Blake? For the Land's sake! My 
dear, I haven't seen a paper for three 
weeks; I've just thought nothing and 
taked nothing but this Fair. Mercy — 
what will the poor boy do with that 
combing set? I've a good mind to buy 
it back from him — at half price. 

[Nods with mechanical smile.] 

There's that little Maxwell cat. I 
don 't see what they let her in for. She 's 
keeping a list of all her sales, and she'll 
have it published in every paper in 
town. I never would have had her in 
the Fair at all, if I'd had anything to 

112 



AT THE CHARITY FAIR 

say. Well, Charity or none, you have to 

draw the line somewhere. She's coming 

over here. [Very sweetly.] 

Good afternoon, Mrs. Maxwell. We're 

doing splendidly. Aren't you tired? I'm 

nearly dead; my feet hurt me so they 

nearly kill me. Have you? That's fine ! 

[Shoots glance after departing 

Mrs. Maxwell.] 

Well, there's no use antagonizing that 
sort of a person; besides, she's awfully 
clever at making the men buy things 
they don't want. 

[Glances up at woman approach- 
ing.'] 

This woman won't buy anything — you 
can always tell. 

[Ansiuers the woman absently.] 
Yes, the Fair is for the benefit of the 
Lakeside Settlement. I don't know. 
[To Mrs. Mathews.] 
Do you know where the settlement is ? 
Urn — hm — I thought it was somewhere 
round that neighborhood. 

[Replies to woman curtly.] 
No, I've never been there. I don't 
know how many children there are there. 
[Turns looh of surprise, then as- 
tonishment and indignation, at 
the woman.] 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Beally, that is a matter of taste ! 

[Turns her back on her and speaks 
to Mrs. Matheics.] 

Did you hear her? She said if I had 
donated the money I spent on my cos- 
tume, and gone down to the Settlement 
and worked, I'd be in better business 
than parading my bad manners at a so- 
ciety Fair! It's awful the way these 
cranks get in. 

[Slightly anxious look dawns on 
her face.] 

Dear me — there comes Dick. I hope 
he isn't in as bad a humor as he was 
last night. [Calls out cheerfully.] 

Hello, dearie; awfuly sweet of you to 
come out so early. Going where? Home 
to dinner? But, darling, you know the 
cook and Annie are both helping in the 
German Coffee House — there isn't go- 
ing to be any dinner at home. I can't 
go get them ; I promised they would help 
there, and they need them. Besides, I 
want you to help get these things packed 
up to-night after we close. Well, all the 
husbands are going to help. 

[She begins to cry and tvorks tip 
to a climax.] 

Very well, go to town and get a decent 
meal and leave me here, alone, to work 

114 



AT THE CHARITY FAIR 

all night. You are the only husband 
who has acted like this, and fussed, and 
cursed — you did; you said damn- — and 
I do think when it's for Charity, and 
you know how tired I am — go away, I 'm 
entirely upset now, for the whole eve- 
ning. 

[Weeps copiously into her hand- 
kerchief, until husband departs, 
then turns a serene smile on 
Mrs. Mathews.] 

It's all right. I knew he'd stay out 
and work if I cried a little. Isn't it 
awful the way husbands force you to 
act? I wonder if it pays to wear your- 
self out like this, and make your serv- 
ants and your husband cross for weeks, 
— just for charity? 



115 



AUNT JANE 

Characters : 

Aunt Jane Wiggins, who lias been to 
"the City." 

The Members of the Village Missionary 

Society. 
Scene — The Church Parlors. 

Aunt Jane Speaks. 

Wa'al, howdy-do, everybuddy! My 
sakes, the nicest part of goin' on a trip 
is gittin' home again. Howdy-do, Miss 
Stanton! You're enjoyin' the same old 
pore health, I see; yon ought to take a 
trip — it ud help you. Jemimy, how nice 
you look; I ain't seen nuthin' as stylish 
as you are, in the City. Miss Paxon, 
how's all them nine childern of yours? 
Measles? Land sakes! Wa'al, it's a 
blessin' it ain't whoopin' cough. Think 
of nine whoops agoin' all at onct! 

By rights, I ought to be to home this 
minute a-bakin' extry pies, so's to git 
Pa and the boys filled up. You'd think 
they ain't et since I left, the way they 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

eat. I dunno's I blame 'em, considerin' 
Tom's wife's cooldn' — she come in to 
git their meals while I wuz gone. . . . 
What ye got fer me to git at, Miss Par- 
sons? Pants! Wa'al, I reckon I can 
make out to git a pair of pants together ; 
I've made enough of 'em. These is fer 
a purty small heathen, ain't they? 

[She holds them up and inspects 
them. Gets out needle, thread 
and thimble from her bag, while 
she talks.] 

I 'member the fust pair of pants I 
made fer John, my oldest boy — he's got 
a grocery store in Calif orny. now — I'd 
never made none before, so J jest cut 
'em straight, ain't sloped 'em none, you 
know, an' they wuz certainly a funny 
shape. You couldn't tell whether the 
child wuz a-comin' or a-goin', and when 
he fell down, somebuddy had to run and 
git him up. Talkin' 'bout pants, ye 
oughter see the kind them city dudes is 
wearin' — looks je^' like divided skirts. 
I seen lots of queer things in the City; 
it does brighten a body up to git away. 

No, Jemimy, I didn't mortgage the 
farm to git there. I s'pose I may as 
well tell you folks now as any time how 
I got the money, so's to save you the 
trouble of findin' out. You ail know 

118 



AUNT JANE 

'bout my nephew Bichard and his wife, 
an' how they ben a-askin' me to visit 
them fer ten years — well, Bichard 's 
wife, Buth, she up an' sent me twenty- 
five dollars and told me they wuz tired 
of waitin,' an' to jest git on a train an' 
come along. Wa'al, I hed saved up thir- 
teen dollars and ten cents myself, so Pa 
didn't hev to hand out a cent, an' I jest 
told 'em I'd ben wantin' to go to the 
City all my life an' now I wuz a-goin'. 
'Fore they got their breath I wuz oft an ' 
gone. 

Wa'al, when I got to the City there 
wuz Buth an' Bichard waitin' fer me, 
in a autymobile. I don't s'pose I ever 
would hev got in the thing, if it ain't 
I'm so upset with the noises an' the ring- 
i;i' an' clangin' tliet Bichard jes' put 
me in an' started off before I knew what 
he wuz doin'. 

I wisht you could see thet house, Miss 
Hawkins. * They keep three hired girls 
an' a feller they call the Butler to open 
the door, if anybuddy knocks, an' wait 
at table. Land* sakes, he did worry me 
so at first, standin' there lookin' at you, 
an' never sayin' a word! The first day 
at dinner, I see I had a clean napkin at 
my place, an' I sez — "Jest have that put 
away, Buth, I can use my pocket hand- 
k 'chief !" an' that man let out a sneeze 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

or somethin' right behind me, an' I 
nearly jumped out of my skin. Ruth 
sez, "Barker, leave the room!" My, I 
never would have dared speak to him 
like that, an' when I called him Mr. Bar- 
ker, Ruth told me I mustn't — it was just 
"Barker." 

An' the table she set — you never could 
tell what you wuz eatin'. I never recog- 
nized a thing thet come on the table 
while I wuz there, an' they never had 
pie onct. I come home pie-hungry. 
Wa'al, I dunno's I liked it so much, but 
I managed to make out all right. 

What say, Miss Parker? Did she 
have silk rag carpets? No, they wuz 
little scraps of store carpet round every- 
where, an' you wuz always slipping 
'cause the floors is jest like ice. No, 
they wuzn't a good rag carpet in the 
house. 

I wisht you could see 'em spend 
money ! The first day I wuz there Ruth 
took me down town an' bought me a silk 
dress an' a new bunnit, an' a silk coat, 
an' she made me wear 'em all the time. 
It most broke my heart. I told her I'd 
ruther keep that dress to be laid out in, 
but she wouldn't hear of it. 

They asked me where I'd like best to 
go, so I sez I'd like to go to their church, 
an' meet their minister, an' go to the 

120 



AUNT JANE 

Missionary Society, but Ruth says they 
don't have 'em in the City much, an' 
Richard he laffed an' sez — "Let's take 
Aunt Jane to the Vuddyville!" I didn't 
know what it wuz, so I went. I didn't 
know it wuz the theayter, till I got 
there. Yes, Malviny Parsons, I wuz to 
the theayter, an' what's more, I wisht 
you all could go, fer it ain't wicked at 
all, barrin' some things. 

iWa'al, I dunno's I can tell you what 
it's like, Jemimy. It's sort of like a 
church, only bigger, 'n' the part as 
would be the altar is kind of high, with 
a plush curtain in front of it. Richard 
an' Ruth an' I set in a little place off 
to one side, kind of like the choir loft, 
but most folks set in the regular pews, 
— seats, I mean. 

There wuz a band xolayin' when we 
come in, an' a girl come out an' 
sung somethin' or other, in a silk 
dress, and then she run off an' in a min- 
ute she wuz back, dressed up in boy's 
clothes, right there before all them peo- 
ple, men, women an' all. It wuz terri- 
ble, but I jest looked right up at the 
ceilin', I never looked at her but onct, 
an' I will say fer the girl, she only- 
stayed a minute, an' 'fore I knowed it 
she wuz back in some more clothes. I 
dunno how she got herself changed so 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

quick. Eichard wuz laughin' an' looldn , 
at me. "She's a lightning change artist, 
Annt Jane," he sez. "The lightning- 
ought to have struck her in them pants!" 
I sez, an' just then the curtain went up, 
an' there wuz a house with two doors 
an' two windows. It wuz kind of dark, 
an' purty soon a tramp-lookin' man 
come along, an' I sez to Eichard — 
' ' What 's that tramp a-doin ' here ? " He 
sez, "Sh! he's one of the actors." Wa'al, 
the tramp got out a hammer an' a awl 
an' begun to break into the house. I 
told Eichard somebuddy ought to git the 
police, but he laughed, an' not a soul in 
that house tried to stop him. Purty 
soon a policeman come along, an' I sez, 
"Uh-huh," an' eveiybuddy laughed, an' 
Eufi sez, "Sh!" When the tramp seen 
the policeman, he ran in the door an' 
jumped out the window, with the police- 
man after him, an' they kep' a-appear- 
in' an' a disappearing an' everybuddy 
wuz yellin' an' laughin'. Purty soon 
the tramp come out on the roof an' 
jumped off, an' I sez — "Landsakes, I 
bet he's killed!" But Eichard sez it's 
just a play, an' 'fore he could explain to 
me, the curtain whisked down, an' I 
dunno whether he caught him er not. 

Next a little girl come out, a little 
thing no bigger 'n your Lucinda, Miss 

122 



AUNT JANE 

Parsons, with pink stockings an' shoes 
on', an' a pink dress, an' she sung too 
cute fer anything, an' ast somebucldy to 
go home with her, 'cause her father wuz 
a drunkard. When she wuz done every- 
buddy clapped, but not a soul got up to 
go, so I got up, an' I sez — "Hichard, 
come along." "Where to?" he sez. 
"Home with that child," I sez. "Set 
right down, Aunt Jane; that's just a 
song; she don't really want anybuddy 
to go home with her — " he sez. "But 
ain't her father a drunkard?" He sed 
he didn't know. "Wa'al," I sez, il I 
rin't never seen no drunkard's child 
dressed like that, but no child can call 
on me fer help in vain." 

Then there wuz a couple of niggers 
come along. No, Malviny, the child went 
away before the niggers come out. They 
begin talkin' an' laughin' an' I didn't 
understand them very good, but purty 
soon they begun to dancin' an' singin', 
an' my sakes alive! everybuddy wuz 
laughin' an' I wuz laughin' fit to kill. 
They kind of shook their feet out like 
this. 

[Gets up, holds out her skirts and 
tries to do shuffle.] 

Then they wuz trained dogs an' a lot 
of things, an' then the curtain went up 
an' I thought I wuz lookin' right into 

123 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Heaven. It wuz all sort of liazy an* 
white, an' a Angel wuz sittin' at a or- 
gan, an' other Angels all round up high, 
like they'd just stopped flyin', an' one 
of 'em sang a hymn 'bout Jerusalem, 
an' all the rest sang in the chorus, an' 
I wanted to git right down on my knees, 
but they wa'nt room. The tears wuz 
a-runnin' down my face, an' whenEich- 
ard an' Euth saw I wuz a-cryin' they 
kind of cried, too. When that holy vision 
faded, I turned to Eiehard an' I sez — 
"That's the grandest sight I ever see, 
an' I think the theayter is a better place 
than folks give it credit fer bein'. I 
wisht our hull congregation wuz down 
here, minister an' all, to see that Angel 
scene, fer it would make better men an' 
women of 'em all." Euth she just 
hugged me an' sez I'm a dear old soul — - 
an' there ye are, Miss Parsons. I guar- 
antee them pants '11 hold together fer 
the rampaginest heathen on Afric's 
coral strand. 

[Rands over her seiving, puts 

away her things in her bag.] 
Landsakes, you must be tired out 
listenin' to me run on, but— why, yes, 
Miss Parsons, I will lead in prayer. 

[She stands up and folds her 

hands, reverently, her eyes 

closed.'] 

124 



AUNT JANE 

"Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for 
the blessings we have, and don't think 
we're ungrateful, if we ask fer some 
more. If in Thy merciful goodness, 
Thou couldst let all these women go fer 
a trip to the City, so's they could see 
that Angel scene, how it would enrich 
their lives. Even if they had to see the 
girl with the pants, Lord, the Angel 
scene would make up for it. Forgive 
our sins, Lord; make us better folks, 
an' lead us Home at last. Amen." 

[She turns to the rest of them.] 

I want to say before I go, thet I would 
rather be the porest old woman in the 
village an' live right here, then to be 
the richest woman in the City, — an' 
thet's the best part of takin' a trip! 



125 



THE SHAMPOO WOMAN 

Characters : 

Mrs. 'Grady, a shampoo artist. 

Mrs. Alden, her patron. 

Scene — Mrs. Alden' s Dressing-room. 

Mrs. 'Grady Speaks. 

[Mrs. 0' Grady enters, places bag 
on chair, and puts on her apron 
while she talks.] 

Good marnin', Mum; I hope I see yez 
well, Mum. Yis, 'tis a gran' day, an' 
foine fer dhryin' the scalp. Ye 're all 
riddy, I see, Mum. Will yez sit here in 
the sun, Mum! 

[Places chair for Mrs. Alden. 
drapes a towel round her neck, 
and takes down her hair, plac- 
ing the hairpins on table beside 
her.] 

Ye've got the foinest head of hair av 
any lady Oi worr-ruk for! Oi say thot 
to all av them! Dade I don't Mum. Tis 

127 



MOBE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

the truth Oi'm tellin' ye, ye've got a 
gran' head av hair! 

[She rubs Mrs. Alden/s hair and 
brushes it, talking all the time.] 
It makes Mrs. Findlay's hair look 
loike thurty cints. Yis, this is her-r day. 
too. Does she use phwat? No, darlin'; 
she uses good old hydrogen pyroxide, 
that's phwat she uses. Her hair is as 
black as ink, whin 'tis lift alone. Mrs. 
Findlay — she's a wonder, she is. She 
ought to 'a' been a playactor, she ought. 
01 've been puttin' that shtuff on her, 
an' a-bleachin' out her hair, fer three 
years, an' she niver fails to till me, 
phwat a blond baby she wuz ! 

Yis, there's mony a lady thot uses ut, 
but not so many as used to. Ivry wan 
av thim sez 'tis only to bring out the 
gold an' brighten oop the hair! Ye 
moight as well talk av bringin' gold out 
av clay bricks as out av black hair, to 
my thinkin'. Ye niver saw a bleached 
woman thot couldn't sphot anither 
bleached woman a mile off, an' yit they 
always think no wan suhpects thim. 
There ye are — ready to wash. 

[She goes to faucet, turns on 
water, feels it, moves the chair 
over for Mrs. Aid en to sit in, 
and begins to wash her hair.] 

128 



TEE SHAMPOO WOMAN 

Am I drowndin' ye, darlin'? Hot, is 
ut? There — is thot all roight? I would- 
n't burn ye fer the wor-rld. Though 
there's some wimmen I shampoo I just 
as soon scald as not! There — thot's 
over. 

[Wraps towel about her head and 
moves chair back to original 
position. Begins to rub and 
dry hair.] 

Now, we'll soon be done. Your hair 
is so noice an' soft, Mum. I got wan 
lady with hair loike foine wire, an' she's 
forever tellin' me she can't do nuthin' 
wid ut, it's so soft. She sez to me the 
ither day, she sez — "Maggie" — shesez, 
"phwat shall Oi do wid me hair — 'tis so 
soft?" "Well," I sez, "if 'twas moine," 
I sez, "Oi'd use cold starch!" 

I tell ye, Mum, hair is awful contrary 
stuff, so it is. Some hair is the manest- 
natured, cross-grained, stubbornest stuff 
on the face av the urth. An' 'tis loike 
a baby; ye can't punish ut. 'Tis often 
Oi'm achin' to use the back av the brush, 
irstid av the bristles. 

Red hair is the manest av all. Ye can 
labor with ut fer a loifetoime, an' in the 
ind, 'tis the same mane-sphirited up- 
sthandin' stuff that it wuz at the furst, 
an' all yer pains arr washted. Noice 

129 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

brown hair loike yer own, Mum, is the 
pleasantest sphoken hair to be associ- 
ated with. No, I ain't a blarney, Mum; 
Oi'm a truth-tellin ', high-moinded Oirish 
Aritocrat, somephwat rejuced in circum- 
stances ! There ye are — Mum. 

[Takes off apron, packs hag, and 
gets ready to go.] 
Oi have done tin heads to-day, Mum. 
Tin a day, foive days a wake, an' ivry 
day '11 be wash day by an' bye! Two 
wakes frum to-day, Mum. Good-bye, 
Mum — a pleasant day to ye, Mum. 

[Goes out, nodding farewell.] 



130 



HEROINES 

Characters : 

Myrtle Teague, of the Depot Restaur- 
ant, Pinhook, Indiana. 
[Imitation of a George Ade hero- 
ine.] 

Ezry Taggart, a Hoosier farmer. 

Buddy, " chore boy." 

Myrtle Speaks. 

Say, fer the Land's sakes, who upset 
this custard pie? Well, look-a-here, 
Buddy, when you go to upsettin' a pie, 
you git one with a top to it. I never 
seen such a mess, and "44" due here 
any minute. Git a rag and wipe it up. 
[Catches sight of Ezry, ivho sa- 
lutes.] 

Mornin', Ezry; how are you? No, set 
down. I ain't got nuthin' to do till "44" 
gits in, and she's late to-day. Due at 
12:10. Yes, we alius git a crowd on 
"44." They come a-crowclin' in here 
like a herd of hungry buffaloes. I tell 
you, the station eatin' house is the place 

131 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

to see folks ! Why, we git wunmen in 
here, every day, nice lookin' winunen, 
too, jest pushin' and scratchin' to git up 
to the counter first, and men bellerin' 
fer their food like elephants. 

Jest last night we had a feller in here, 
good-lookin' feller, too, awful stylish- 
lookin'. Well, he set up to the counter 
and he ordered up everything in sight. 
He had two cups of coffee, six dough- 
nuts, two pieces pie, a glass of milk and 
a pickle. Well, every time I went past 
him he handed me out a jolly, an' at 
last I sez to him, "Look-a-herc, young 
feller; we don't have none of the free 
an' easy kind in here, so don't you git 
near with me ! ' ' He sez, ' ' No offense 
intended, Pretty!'' Well, I didn't pay 
no attention to him till he had et, and 
then I sez, " Sixty cents!" He threw 
down fifty cents and a dime, and then 
he hands out a quarter. 

"Here's somethin' fer you — " he sez; 
"git yerself a diamond tiara or a rib- 
bon!" 

Well, I jest shoved the quarter back 
towards him, holdin' on to it all the time, 
and I sez : 

"I never was one to pluck the blue 
ribbon off'n the prize exhibit!" I sez, 
jest like that. 

Jest then the Porter yells "All 

132 



HEROINES 

aboard" and I had to hustle, so I never 
thought no more about it till I went to 
git my quarter, and would you believe it 
— every cent of it was counterfeit. All 
except the dime, and that was thin. 
Some four-flush drummer handin'off the 
bit coin! Oh, I tell you, you got to 
watch 'em. 

- How's your folks, Ezry? huh? You 
don't say? Fer the land sakes, Ezry, 
how many is that? Nine 'er 'leven, you 
can't remember which? [Laughs.] I 
don't blame you. I wuz a-drivin' past 
your place last week, and I sez "Ezry 
Taggart's place looks like the Orphant 
Asylum ! ' ' 

Say, I see by the mornin' "Spread 
Eagle" thet Miss Co'nelia Higgins is 
visitin' down to your place. Who's she 
after down there? You don't say? 
Dont' she beat all? She's goin' to git 
a man, if she has to lassoo him and drag 
him to the altar! 

[Startled glance at him, then, 
coyly.] 

Who told you that? All over t*-wn! 
Well, I wisht the folks in this town 
would mind their own business. , . .Yes, 
he's a nice feller Jethro Judc* is his 
name. Oh, no, he don't live herf, he's a 
city feller. Well, he's a self m?de man, 
Ezry, he's a Pullman car conductor. No, 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

I raet liim here. 'Bout six weeks ago it 
wuz. The Christian Endeavors had a 
lawn-fete up to Hawkins' Grove and 
Jethro had came in on one of the evenin' 
trains, and somebody had took him up 
there. He wuz standin' with Freddy 
Brown when I come in. Freddy told 
me 'bout it afterwards. He sez Jethro 
punched hum and sez — 

" Gee— who's the Queen of Sheba?" 

"Why, that's Myrtle!" 

"Say, I'd be a willing performer in 
that direction" — he sez, and so Fred 
brought him up. Well, I seen as soon 
as I spoke to him that he wuz a feller 
with a lot of 'savoir de faire' so I put 
on my most 'rickershay' manner, jest 
fer the sake of the town, you know. I 
couldn 't shake him. He come down here 
to the restarong with me, and we had a 
piece of pie and a cup of coffee, on Mm, 
and he's been comin' in twict a week 
since. 

Oh, no, there ain't no real date set. 
It's grand to have a gentleman friend so 
high up in the railrcad. Why, I can go 
from here to Kokomo any time, fer 
nuthin'. 

[She starts at sound of engine 
whistle.] 

There's '44' a-whistlin'. Come round 
134 



HEROINES 

again, Ezry. Eegards to the folks. 
Buddy, reach me that pie knife, and git 
ready, fer "apres nous the deluge!" 

[Her French is 'pronounced ac- 
cording to the spelling.'] 



II. 



Characters 



Lady Cecily Dunwald. 

[Imitation of a Bernard Shaw Heroine.] 

Monsieur Alphonse Daurigny, a French 
Portrait Painter. 

Lord Dunwald. 

Captain Philip Travers, IT. S. A. 

Scene — Drawing room at Dunwald Cas- 
tle, where Lady Dunwald is 
serving the Fainter with tea. 

Lady Dunwald Speaks. 

Alphonse, you paint with words, as 
well as with brushes! I've always 
thought of love as an outgrown fallacy 
of the past and now you bring it to me 
a breathing, living reality! 

[Walks about thoughtfully.] 

135 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

Ah, yes, it seems very simple to you. 
You say, ' ' Give me the rest of your life 
and we'll make a little Paradise of our 
own." But, my good friend, what are 
we going to do with those other two? 
What other two? Why, my husbands. 
[Looks at him in surprise.'] 

Two, an unusual number you say? 
Possibly, but then I am unusual, I'm a 
type. No, I never told you the tale, I 
thought it would bore you. Of course, 
if you like. 

[She sits facing him.] 

Two years ago, in America, I was 
married to young, handsome, dashing 
Captain Philip T ravers of the United 
States Army. We bored each other for 
one dreary year, and then we decided to 
separate. We drew up a contract of 
separation and I insisted upon Philip's 
signing it, for I knew him to be entirely 
without conscience, and he insisted on 
my signing, for exactly the same reason. 

No, there was no talk of divorce. You 
see, we were so hopelessly in debt that 
I knew there was no chance of alimony, 
so we just separated. . . . Oh, yes, 
I had the usual number of parents. 
I might have gone to them, but they 
were always so uncongenial. I never 
could see why children should be ex- 

136 



HEROINES 

pected to love their parents. They know 
nothing about these people whom they 
are thrown in with, by chance. No, I 
couldn't go there, so I took what money 
there was, and came to London. 

Shortly after that I met Lord Dun- 
wald, rich, respectable, middle aged — 
fifty — and he did me the honor to ask 
me to run away and marry him. There 
was really not much choice. I had no 
time to explain to Philip, and I had no 
impulse to explain to Dunwald, so we 
were married. Of course, I cabled Philip 
at once to begin proceedings for deser- 
tion. Unluckily my cable found him in 
New York on leave of absence. What 
did he do? Took the next steamer, and 
came across to talk it over. Voila! 
There I was with two of them on my 
hands ! 

Of necessity I had to explain Dunwald 
to Philip, and Philip was unreasonable 
enough to insist on my explaining him 
to Dunwald. So I introduced them. 
They took to each other like brothers — 
they seemed to feel the deepest sympa- 
thy for each other, and now they are 
the modern Damon and Pythias ! 

I believe it has been decided that 
Philip returns to New York and divorces 
me — Dunwald is paying the expenses — 
and then he returns to be our house 

137 



MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

guest for a montn or so. And now, you 
come to complicate things! Oh, Al- 
phonse, is it your curly hair or your 
soul, that makes me love you so No 
doubt it is your curly hair 

[She walks about and finally 

leans on the mantle opposite 

him.'] 

Yes, that is the question, what are we 

to do? The only thing that occurs to me 

is that we should put the whole matter 

before my husbands and see how they 

feel about it. 

[Looks at him in great astonish- 
ment.'] 
How? Oh, my dear Alphonse, not in 
this day of the triangular marital peace 
conference ! Well, of course, if their de- 
cision does not agree with ours, why 
then I'll go ahead and do my own way. 
Yes, I always get what I want because 
I know how to take it. 

[She stands before him and con- 
tinues ivhim sic ally.] 
I am the Great Egotist with a capital 
"E!" There is no God but Selfishness 
and I am his Prophet ! There is a great 
deal of rubbish talked about altruism. 
Why, selfishness is the highest altruism ; 
selfishness is the great devoloper; it is 

138 



HEROINES 

an octopus that sucks in all that comes 
within its grasp; it is selfishness that 
prompts us to go out and experience 
new things, and it is experience that 
makes us valuable citizens — Selfishness 
is the note of Now! 

Take my own case for instance. I have 
come to a place where Love is what I 
need for my development. You bring it 
to me, you inspire it in me — we comple- 
ment each other — now, why should those 
other two, who have served their pur- 
pose in the development of Me, why 
should they interfere with our comple- 
tion? 

It is absurd — they shall not. Ah, 
there is Dunwald now. I hear his voice 
in the hall. We'll tell him about it. 

[Turns to greet Dunwald and 
Travers who enter. She gives 
a hand to each one graciously.] 

" Good afternoon, Dunwald. And you 
too, Philip. You come at the psycho- 
logical moment! You both know Mon- 
sieur Daurigny. Alphonse, my hus- 
bands. 

[She walks to tea table.] 

May I give you some tea! You've 



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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

had yours? Oh. Sit down, then, will 

you? 

[She motions Dumvald to a chair 
at C. and T ravers to a chair at 
her left. Daurigny is at the 
far right.] 

You see, Monsieur Daurigny and I — 
we — find that we love each other, and 
we wish to consult you as to the best so- 
lution of our difficulty. 

[Turns to Dumvald 'petulantly.] 
Oh, now, Dunwald, please, please, 
don't be conventional If you must in- 
dulge in a diatribe on a woman's duty 
to her husband, won't you please do it 
in the next room ? I simply cannot bear 
that. 

[In a hurt tone.] 

But I am thinking of you, Dunwald, 
I am thinking of you more than I ever 
have of anyone, except myself! We all 
know your ideas on morality as the 
backbone of the British aristocracy, but 
that has nothing to do with this case. 
[Turns to T ravers.] 

Can't you stop him, Philip,? 

[Pantomime, while Philip speaks.] 

That's it. If you would just listen to 
my idea. Well, Dunwald, couldn't you 
go to New York with Philip and both of 

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HEROINES 

you divorce me there ? It would be sim- 
ple, quiet and inexpensive. . . . The 
alternative is obvious, Dunwald. And 
think how embarrassing for all of us, if 
I were divorcing you at the same time 
that Philip was divorcing me! 

Here we are four sensible people — 

why not leave the decision to obviously 

the most open minded of us all — Philip. 

[Turns on Dunvjald in aggrieved 

way.] 

I should think he had some rights, 

Dunwald, he's my first husband ancl 

your best friend! .... Well, will 

you agree to act on his decision! . . 

. And you, Alphonse? .... As 

for me, Philip, I know you will decide 

exactly as I would myself. 

[She turns to him and nods and 
smiles to all he says, ivith a 
gesture of appeal to the other 
two 7 now and then.] 
Splendid — thank you so much, Philip. 
You see, how simple it is. 
[Wearily.] 
I'm sorry you feel so annoyed, Dun- 
wald. Thank you. You may kiss my 
cheek, Dunwald. 

[Presents her right cheek.] 
And you, Philip, thank you again. 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

You may kiss my other cheek 

Come, Arphonse, we will leave them and 
go for our motor ride. 



III. 

Characters. 

hulda soldberg. 

[Imitation of an Ibsen Heroine.] 

Herman Soldberg, her husband. 

Scene — Living room at the Soldberg 
house. 

[Hulda enters slowly, dragging 
one foot after the other with 
effort. She has her eyes fixed 
in a glassy stare and starts at 
her husband's ivord.] 

Hulda Speaks. 

You sent for me, and I am here. 

[She sinks into chair beside table, 

and fixes her big eyes on him.'] 

You ask me what is the matter! I 

have waited days, weeks, and months, 

for this moment, and now it has come 

there are no words. . . . All the bit- 

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HEROINES 

terness, the disappointment — the suffer- 
ing. . . . 

[Catches her throat as if chok- 
ing.] 

For six years I have lived under your 
roof, been the mistress of your house- 
hold and the head of your table. In all 
that time what have you known of my 
Soul? What do you care that it has 
been cramped, dwarfed, misshapen here ? 
. . . And now, I am going away. 
There must be somewhere in the world, 
either in Norway or in Africa, some lit- 
tle cottage where my Soul may be alone 
and drink of freedom. . . . 

[Turns on him.] 

You? Oh, you've roofed me, clothed 
me, and fed me. That's enough no 
doubt. . . . What do you do with 
your life? You go each day to a dingy 
place and make paltry money — you 
come home at night and what do you 
bring to me? I want to go and see 
"Ghosts" or some other uplifting 
drama, and you — you want a trivial 
musical show! Eeal music, the key to 
my being — what does it mean to you? 
You think "Tristan and Isolde" is 
something to be slept through ! 
[In a hollo tv voice.] 

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MORE MODERN MONOLOGUES 

"Have you never suspected that all 
these years you were sitting opposite, 
not a woman, but a starving Soul? I've 
borne this heaped up misery as long as 
I can. The one thing I've longed for, 
all my life, the thing I've begged you 
for, on bended ^nees, you have denied 
me — You ! To ask me what it is, when 
you know it is a check book of mine 
own ! A check book of mine own ! 

[She breaks off weeping bitterly, 
and turns to go.] 
I am going out into the world — where 
my soul can be free ! 

[She drags out, one arm raised 
high above her head.] 



144 



DEC 36 1902 



